Stained with tear drops of Chanel, and riddled with creases. He smelt their scent before he saw them, folded clumsily underneath the door jam. Even in the early hours when scarlet first began to crack the sky, they'd lie there, waiting, watching, singing out to him in the most enticing voice.

They were always written on the torn pages of old classic novels; The Great Gatsby, Jane Eyre, Alice in Wonderland to name the most recent. He always winced at the thought of a vital passage being stripped from their bindings; a link in the chain broken. A tale broken. But curiosity as ever broke through.

Before he even dared to unfold the letters, he would hold them up and inhale their aroma of people, and places and knowledge; twisting and dancing in type-written print around him. It smelt like home.

Books were wiser than he could ever dream to be. They were certain in their opinions. Everything was either black or white. He yearned for their unwavering morals. He thought how wonderful it would be to fall into a book, and lose himself in the pages of a life that could never stray because it was written so perfectly and precisely.

He felt the weight of the letter. (Which was stupid because it was the same weight as any other letter he had received that morning). Maybe it was the weight of the words, so precious in their entirety, which made this letter different.

As the dog-eared corners were unfolded, his eyes were drawn to each word, each letter, as he gulped them down, eager for more, eager for something to fill the endless emptiness in his chest. He let the sound of her voice surround him, wrapping him in her dulcet, velveteen tones, cushioning him with nostalgia. Then he opened his eyes and read into each word. He felt their points stab again and again, into nothingness.

He heard her scream as he drove away, deaf to the world. He felt his hands shake as she drummed her fists into a brick wall, and tiny pricks of red dotted her pale fingers.

He threw the letter from his hands, and stood there. Shaking.
It merged with a pile of withered pages from 1984, Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, To Kill a Mockingbird, Robinson Crusoe and countless others.

Just a stupid little love note, he thought, as he did everyday when the post came.
He kicked the tidy pile; a small, nagging reminder seeping through a crack from where he had bricked out his old life. He glanced down at the scattered notes. Scrawled on each page were the same three words, that brought with them the same emotions every day when at exactly 7 o'clock they were mailed up to his apartment.

But he couldn't bring himself to put them in the trash. So they just stayed where they fell. Like a piece of the furniture.


Just a stupid little love note.