The Last Letter

It was raining again, and even though I was soaked to the bone, I kept walking through Pleasant Park. There’s something soothing about this place in the rain with the trees towering above, droplets dripping from branches like they’re part of some quiet, unseen rhythm. When I’m upset, I always come here. I’ve learned that adding more sadness to sadness is dangerous. I avoid dark places like Depression Park, bad food, or miserable songs. It’s like I’m avoiding a trap, a black hole that’s easy to fall into and impossible to climb out of.

Pleasant Park is different. There’s a common beauty here, something friendly and open. Walking through the park in the rain, without a coat or umbrella, I feel like I’m stripping away the numbness that’s settled in my chest. It’s painful, but at least it’s something.

It’s been two weeks since I met A. And two weeks since I learned what I should’ve known all along. A went back to B, just like I knew he would. But maybe I should explain how we got here, why I thought -hopefully, I know- that this time would be different. Maybe telling the story will help me, even if only a little.

So let’s start at the beginning.

I was born on a stormy day, and my mother still talks about the difficult birth. “It was a sign of things to come,” she says, reminding me that the storm somehow marked me, made me different from the start. I was named Z. Maybe that was the storm’s fault too. Sometimes I think they knew exactly what they were doing, branding me with the final letter, as if setting me apart from everyone else before I even had a chance.

Fast forward a few years, and I’m still stuck with the same name, the same feeling of being different, in a world where everyone around me slots neatly into place. My friends -X and Y, because of course we would end up together- act like they’re better than me. Sometimes I wonder why we’re even friends, except that there’s a rule, an unspoken protocol in this world of ours. We stay in our little social groups: JKL, DEF, STU... Each group is a locked box, and no one mixes or talks to anyone above or below their station.

One time, I tried calling out to E I pronounced her name just like that: È. She didn’t even look at me. I remember the groups around us snickering, and I learned, or thought I learned, to stay quiet.

But apparently, I didn’t learn well enough.

Then there was A. I don’t know what came over me to think I could break out of this system and get close to him, but he was everything I wasn’t. Charming, flawless, someone who actually mattered in this world of alphabetized cliques. So, I lied. When a new social network popped up, I created an account with the name: Á, with a fake address from a foreign country. I wasn’t Z anymore. And it was thrilling.

As Á, I talked to A every day. We would stay up late, messaging until the small hours, talking about everything. My lame jokes, my sarcastic comments -things I never showed anyone else. He loved it all. With A, I could be myself and a little more. For six months, we talked. And all the while, the social system around us started to unravel. B pulled away from A, and the rest of the groups followed, slipping and shifting like pieces of a puzzle falling apart. For the first time, it felt like the walls of our little boxes were breaking down, and behind my hair, I could feel a smile creeping across my face.

I was Á, the one who had set this quiet rebellion in motion. And for once, I felt…happy.

A kept asking when he could meet me, and after half a year of pretending, I decided to risk it. I would meet him as Á, but tell him the truth about who I really was. I imagined the moment over and over, his surprise melting into acceptance, maybe even something more. I wanted to believe he’d see past everything and still want me.

We met in Gladness Park on February 14th, and I could barely breathe from the nerves. But at the end of the night, I was alone again, walking through Pleasant Park, feeling anything but pleasant. Somehow, I had been wrong. He didn’t want me -at least, not the real me. And now, two weeks later, I’m back here, letting the rain soak me, clinging to the trees as though they might offer some comfort.

A has gone back to B. I guess some people get everything they want, and people like me -people like Z- deserve nothing. He might have been my person, but I was not the person for him. 

That’s the story. It’s trivial, I know, but I needed to say it, to put it into words. Now I’ll go home and log onto that social network, just to pass the time. Maybe check my messages even though I know it’s pointless.

Oh look.

Inbox (1)

For a moment, my heart skips. And then, just as quickly, I remember there’s nothing there for me. I don’t know what I was expecting.