Chapter 8 WAITING FOR WORDS
Alex
Alex checked his mailbox before breakfast.
Empty.
He checked it after his morning class, hands shaking as he spun the combination. Still nothing.
By lunch, Des had noticed.
“You’re being obsessive,” Des said, watching Alex stare at his phone like it might produce a letter through sheer force of will.
“I know.”
“He probably won’t write back.”
“I know that too.”
“And even if he does, it won’t be today. Mail takes time.”
Alex knew all of this. Knew the Valentine’s program collected letters twice a day and delivered them the next afternoon at the earliest. Knew that even if Elias had written back immediately, which was unlikely, it wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow.
Knowing didn’t stop the hope.
“Come on,” Des said, grabbing his arm. “Sana’s waiting. We’re getting lunch and you’re going to stop getting worried for one hour at least."
The dining hall smelled like overcooked vegetables and floor cleaner. Sana was already at their usual table, textbooks spread out like a war zone. She looked up when they sat down.
“You look awful,” she said to Alex.
“Thanks.”
“Did you send it? The letter?”
Alex nodded. Picked at his sandwich. The bread tasted like cardboard.
“And now you’re waiting to see if he writes back.” Sana closed her biochemistry textbook. “What happens if he does?”
“I write back again, I guess.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.” Alex set down his sandwich. “I haven’t thought that far.”
“You should.” Sana’s voice was gentle but firm. “Because eventually you’ll have to actually talk to him. You know that, right?”
“Eventually.”
“When’s eventually?”
Alex didn’t answer. Des jumped in, changing the subject to his design project, and Sana let it drop. But Alex felt the question sitting heavy in his chest for the rest of lunch.
When would he be ready? When would he be brave enough to close the distance between watching and being seen?
Maybe never.
His shift at the bookstore started at three. The weekend crowd was thin. A few students are buying last-minute textbooks. Someone is looking for a birthday card. Mostly just quiet.
Alex was reorganizing the classics section when his phone buzzed.
Sana: Mail’s here. Want me to check your box?
His heart stopped. Actually stopped.
Alex: How did you know I was waiting for something
Sana: Des told me. Do you want me to check or not?
Alex’s hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped his phone.
Alex: yes please
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Sana: There’s something in your box. White envelope.
The floor tilted. Alex had to lean against the bookshelf to stay upright.
Des: SANA JUST TOLD ME
Des: ALEX HE WROTE BACK
Des: HOLY SHIT
Alex stared at his phone. The words didn’t feel real. He read them again. Again.
Alex: I’m at work until six
Des: You must be DYING right now
He was. He absolutely was.
The next two hours moved like honey. Slow and thick and impossible. Alex helped customers on autopilot. Restocked shelves without seeing what he was putting where. Dropped a stack of paperbacks twice.
His supervisor noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
“You can leave early if you need to.”
“Really?”
“It’s dead. Go.”
Alex didn’t need to be told twice.
He grabbed his bag and practically ran across campus. The student union was five minutes away but it felt like five miles. His breath came fast and sharp in the cold air. His lungs burned.
The mailroom was in the basement. Down a hallway that always smelled like floor wax and old coffee. Alex’s hands shook as he worked his combination.
1-8-4-7.
The little door swung open.
There, sitting on top of a reminder about student health services, was a white envelope. His writer's number on the front was in handwriting he didn’t recognize. Neat. Confident. The kind of handwriting that belonged to someone who graded papers.
Alex pulled it out carefully. Like it might fall apart in his hands.
He made it outside before opening it. Sat on a bench near the library, the same one where he’d sat after sending his first letter. His fingers left dents in the envelope.
The paper inside was plain white. No hearts. The words were typed, not handwritten.
To my unexpected correspondent,
Alex’s breath caught.
I wasn’t going to respond. Convinced myself your letter was a mistake, or a joke, or something I should worry about. But I’ve read it seventeen times since Tuesday, and I keep coming back to one thing: you see me.
Seventeen times. Elias had read his letter seventeen times.
I don’t know who you are. I don’t know your name or your face or if we’ve ever spoken. But you see me in a way I thought was impossible. You see the searching. The hope. The quiet fear that I’m just going through motions.
Alex’s eyes blurred. He blinked hard.
You asked if I’ve found what I’m looking for. The honest answer is no. I’m graduating in four months with no plan, no certainty, no idea if I’m moving toward something or running away. Most days I feel like I’m performing a life that stopped feeling real months ago.
But your letter made something feel real again.
The words wavered on the page. Alex wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
I don’t know what you want from this. If you needed to send those words into the world and you’re done now, I understand. But if you want to keep writing, I’ll keep writing back.
You said I make the world feel less lonely. I want you to know: so do you.
E
Just one letter. Such a small thing. But it felt like everything.
Alex read it again. Then again. On the fourth read, someone sat down next to him.
Des.
“I figured you’d be here,” Des said quietly. He didn’t ask to read the letter. Just sat there while Alex’s hands shook and his vision blurred and something in his chest cracked wide open.
“He wrote back,” Alex finally said.
“I know.”
“He really wrote back.”
“Yeah.” Des’s voice was soft. “What are you going to say?”
Alex looked down at Elias’s words. At the signature. At the vulnerability wrapped in typed sentences and a single initial.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I have to match this. I have to be this honest.”
“You can do honest.” Des stood up and held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home. You have a letter to write.”
Alex folded the letter carefully. Put it in his pocket, right over his heart.
Somewhere on campus, Elias existed. Breathing. Hoping. Waiting for a response.
And Alex was going to give him one.