A letter, when you think all contact has passed, can be a very odd thing. It seems to change in your hand. The cream of the envelope makes the ink stand out fresh, shouting two addresses to the world. His and yours. You are linked on this thin bit of paper. He is asking to be linked again to you.
Is that really your name he’s written? You can remember when he breathed a name in your ear, but it wasn’t this one. There was no ‘Miss’ then, no last name, no sheet of paper between you. The black ink pins you firmly into place, into politeness and formality.
It feels like a game.
Pretending to be mature. To be over everything that happened.
You want to reply; searching the room for paper, a pen, a space on the desk. It takes time. Through it, memories run over your body as ghosts of touches, shivers of familiarity. Words appear from your pen that you don’t mean to write. They stay, the letter ends.
You filch an envelope and carefully copy the address from his.
You are asking to be linked to him again.