There she sat pen in hand, with no idea how to start. Staring at the loose leaf, fearing it’s judgment. She had meticulously picked out this pen, the one that glided effortlessly against loose leaf, as if somehow connected to her thoughts. However, this time was different, it felt like a foreign object in her hand. She felt perpetually lost. The one thing that came so naturally to her had become the greatest difficulty she had ever faced. What could she possibly write that she hadn’t said before. Why would it even matter this time.

She puts down the pen, then proceeds to wipe her sweaty palms on her leggings. She can feel her heart rate start to quicken, she feels a lump in her throat as she gasps in an attempt to regulate her breathing. She gets up wiping the unwanted tears from her face. She walks over to the sink, gliding her hand across the marbled black granite. She looks out of the open window located about 5 inches above the base of the sink. She let the fall breeze hit her face, along with the comforting scent of a rain storm that had just passed. She remained there for about five minutes with her eyes closed.

Slowly opening her eyes, her vision begins to refocus, she turns around and goes back to her desk. However she doesn’t sit down this time, she stares at the single page of loose leaf; stained by single tear. She glances over at the pen, contemplating what to do with it. She slowly pulls out the black computer chair from her desk. She decides to sit down and scoot her chair closer to the desk. She has to do this, she has to finish.

She picks up the pen, wishing it didn’t feel so foreign but she proceeds. She writes the first word, with every stroke she feels the disappointments, she feels the hurt she once thought lay dormant in the back of her mind it was all coming back. However, before she could write another word, she had to stop herself. Words written with hate, anger, and resentment aren’t words that heal. She starts to recall the trust, the support, the love. She knew as painful as it was to recall these feelings it had to be done. She continues to write, experiencing the emotional rollercoaster that comes with each letter and stroke.

Seconds turn into minutes, minutes turn to hours. She catches herself and looks that the blinking red digital numbers. 4:45 a.m. She glances down at the four sheets of loose leaf. It takes her about two minutes to process what she had actually accomplished. She puts all of them in order and reads them over; making sure it was free of grammatical errors. In her hands she holds the last pages of a book she could find the strength to close. She carefully places them down on the table and slowly rises from her chair feeling dazed.

She walks back over to the sink this time flipping on the light switch before entering the kitchen, she glides her hand across the granite again, this time it feels ice cold. She continues to the sink then reaches over to close the window. As she closes the window a burst of cold air slips its way through. She lets out a shiver ,turns around and switches off the light. She makes her way back to her desk, opens the bottom right drawer, extracts a turquoise envelope and lays it down on the surface the surface of the desk. She picks up the four pages holding them in her two hands. Cherishing the last moments of the book she was about to close for good.

She stays there for about two minutes ,then she decides to fold them into three sections. She inserts them into the blue envelope. She picks up the pen which she seems to have a love hate relationship with at this point. Writes down the address, then she proceeds to open the bottom left drawer and rummages for a stamp and eventually finds a stamp with Abe Lincoln’s face on it. She peels off stamp briefly placing it on her tongue, then placing it in the top right corner of the envelope and proceeds to seal the envelope.

She makes her way to the living room, envelope in hand. She picks up her forest green sweatshirt from the black leather couch and pulls it over her head she looks for her black Nike’s but instead she finds her furry green slippers and heads out the front door.

It’s cold out and the sun is just reaching the horizon. Though its pretty cold she’s in no rush she walks at a steady pace. She wants to remember this, every step, every breeze. She sees it, as she gets closer her breath quickens and her heart rate sky rockets. Her hands begin to shake, she’s there. She stares at the big blue mailbox. Tears streaming down her face, she reaches out and grabs the cold metal handle. She places the envelope on the mail shoot, with tears flooding her eyes, she lets go. She finally closed the book. It’s really over.