The paper is cornflower blue, translucent. It is the last sheet from a box that once held fifty sheets. The black lettering is an unlikely marriage of boxy printing and flowery cursive that she would know immediately as his “carefully-penned” script. It is decisive and fragile.

He didn’t want to write the letter. He doesn’t want to give it to her.

It is his goodbye.

He loves her more than anything. Every time he thinks that thought, he searches his life and circumstance for something to prove the statement false. For something to release him.

Every time, he finds nothing.

But this is the right thing to do. The only thing. He has told himself that a hundred times. She is not meant to be his lover or his wife. She can no longer be his friend.

These truths stab at his side. He leans forward, rests his arms on the railing. The metal is cold, but the night air is warm. Wind stirs leaves at his feet.

He reaches into his jacket, removes the letter, unfolds it and holds it with both hands.

The other forty nine sheets of paper drew her close. The love letters. The poems. The short stories. He blushes at the memory of one story. The one he titled “Blindfold.” He recalls the embarrassment of writing words he’d never say aloud. The awkwardness of handing her the letter in a crowded coffee shop. And most of all, the passionate thank-you kiss stolen in the back hallway next to the water fountain.

He knows this letter will bring her closest of all...by sending her back to her husband. Back where she belongs.

He understands the paradox. Of course he does. They have ridden the waves of paradox since the day they first met - in a marriage enrichment seminar.

The moonlight is bright. He begins to read.

My sweet Melissa,

Even if I wrote these words with my own blood, they could not express the heartache, the angst that accompanies my decision to write them. Already, you know what I am going to say. My heart is aching with yours as my hand fights the pen’s march toward an unassailable truth.

We have to say goodbye...

The hum of an approaching electric car pulls his eyes from the paper. Black market and officially banned Blue-Brite headlights momentarily blind him, then disappear quickly in the distance. The air swirls, blowing long brown bangs in front of tired grey eyes.

She loved his long hair. She loved his grey eyes.

She loved everything about him. 

Loves. Present tense.

We have to say goodbye...

Do we? He knows the answer. He has known it for months. She has, too. She is expecting this letter.

He presses a button on his watch and numbers fade into view. They are amber, to match her eyes.

7:43.

Just enough time to deliver the letter before her husband comes home from work. He will leave it under the yellow flagstone like he always does and alert her of its presence with a coded text. Then he will walk away.

Forever.

He closes his eyes and tries to picture her smile, but he can’t see her. His breath quickens, his heart races. He feels the weight of “forever” pressing against his chest.

A sudden wind rips the letter from sweaty hands. Panic is joined by a strange relief. The letter floats gracefully on the evening breeze, a slow dance of forward and backward. Certainty and uncertainty. Hope and hopelessness.

I need to see her once more, he thinks. I will say goodbye in person. There is still time...

He is fragile and decisive. He takes off running.