Just like that movie said: «In NY City, you’re always looking for a job, a boyfriend, or an apartment.» I think it is not just NY; it is a constant that every city has, and I finally found an apartment I can afford without missing any meal, so I need to move as soon as I can.
It is an old flat, tiny, and the owner said I could keep any furniture I want or through away everything I consider garbage. Letting me use the old furniture was a cheaper way of making me clean the apartment. Since it was not her stuff, everything was an absolute mess, and she only cares about the rent payments. The flat seems like if suddenly someday whoever was living there have the urgent of leaving the house, and after arranging half of the stuff in boxes, they just left.
I decided it was a good idea to spend my whole Sunday cleaning and organizing and my goal was to clean at least the main room.
When I arrived, the manager gave me a tiny key, and at the beginning, I had no idea what it was for? Nowadays, nobody sends letters, so I haven’t even noticed the little mailboxes for each apartment in the lobby. They look so ancient and romantic, like from another time, and I don’t know why, but suddenly, I felt curious and had some anxiety guiding me to open mine.
The manager stares, maybe thinking I was trying the key to seeing if it works, but his usually calm expression turns nervous when he saw I grabbed a letter from that mailbox. I jealously put it in my purse and hold it against my chest like if it was mine.
I go to my new flat and try to remove a box full of old stuff from one of the chairs, but it was too heavy, so I sat on the floor and started reading.
Dear Mr. M,
Or should I say, dear stranger?
I’m writing this letter because that’s what we do. We write to each other. I’m writing even when I know the letter will not reach you, and not because you can’t receive it, but because after knowing the truth, I’m not able to walk to any mailbox one more time.
I feel I’m not going to be able to walk anymore, breathe anymore, or keep going. I keep telling myself this has to be a fucking nightmare. I keep thinking about you, repeating our story, searching for the missing signs, trying to understand when all get wrong. Maybe it was since the beginning, do you remember how it was? Does meeting me was also something you planned?
I feel lost. I just want to leave it all behind, but I’m pretty sure the police will not let me do that.
I fucking hate you, but at the same time, I feel like I still want to be yours, and that scares me so much.
Always? yours, B
Suddenly I understand why my instincts guide me to open the mailbox. Writers search for inspiration in every situation we live in, and when we are lucky enough, a treasure like this appears in our life: a real passional love story.
I was living my own story, living a hard breakup, but heartbreak feels like nothing compared with the feeling I felt with the painful but lovely hate that letter has, and I have the urge to know the story behind, so I’m starting my research.