I can’t remember exactly what was wrong that day. It could have been a fight with my sister, an awkward conversation with my mother, or that feeling when you have so much work to do that you can’t figure out where to start. Whatever the problem was, it was making me feel terrible. I felt like curling into a tiny ball and hiding away. I snapped at anyone who talked to me, I didn’t answer my texts. My walls were caving in and smothering me.
Then someone called me from downstairs, “Laura, you have a letter!”
I slowly pushed myself into a sitting position, running my hand through my ratty hair. A letter? I guessed it was from Cat, my pen-pal, because no one else writes physical letters anymore. Honestly, I wasn’t really in the mood. All I wanted to do was hide inside my room until night, when I would have the excuse to sleep. But I knew that I should go get that letter and read it. It’s not like the letter would make me feel worse.
I swung my feet over the edge of my mattress and slowly stood up. I knew that underneath me was a rug and that as I walked past my trash can, a bad smell overwhelmed me and that there was soft music playing from the clock, but I didn’t feel the rug or smell the trash or hear the music. All my mind could think was, Get the letter. Just get it and try to read it. After dragging my feet downstairs and tripping over my cat as I walked through the kitchen, I had the soft, white envelope clutched in my hand. Back up the stairs and into my room, past the trash and the clock and over the rug. I settled back into my bed, the covers blanketing me in warmth and the smell of my room, shielding me from the outside world.
I ran my finger down the top of the envelope, watching it rip open with jagged edges. Inside was the letter. I took a deep breath and pulled it out. It was five pages of writing, single-spaced, with little drawings on each page. I couldn’t help but smile at Cat’s depiction of a pumpkin. I started to read:
October 22, 2020
Dear Laura…
Slowly the terrible feeling inside of me became less terrible. The want to curl up into a ball was less urgent. I stood up and pushed back against the walls caving in on me. Each word brought back something in me that I didn’t realize I was missing. Each sentence made me smile. Being able to think about her life, worry about her problems, and predict what she might be doing at that very moment took the weight off my own problems. My life didn’t feel as smothering.
Cat’s writing was funny, smart and interesting. Her drawings were cute. At one point she wrote out a text conversation she’d had with her crush. I hoped things would work out between the two of them. As I read, I felt the bumpy paper in my hands, indented with her pen strokes. I imagined her writing to me, maybe during one of her classes, only half paying attention to her laptop as she scribbled away. As I reached the end of the letter, I found myself wanting more, wishing that I could keep reading the spirited commentary of her life.
Love, Cat
I hadn’t realized how much better one letter could make me feel, and how much a letter from a friend could mean to me. I folded the paper back up into thirds, placing it into the envelope and onto my pillow. I threw back my covers and sprung out of bed. The rug underneath my socked feet was bumpy and thin. I heard the music playing from my clock and reached over to turn it off. I passed the trash can and thought, I should take that out as soon as I’m done writing back. Out my door and over to my desk, I shuffled through its drawers until I found a stack of lined paper. I grabbed my favorite black pen and went quickly back into my room.
As I jumped lightly onto my bed, the mattress sank and then bounced Cat’s letter on my pillow. I didn’t even bother pulling the covers over me as I happily clicked the end of my pen. I put the date at the top of the fresh piece of paper and wrote:
October 28, 2020
Dear Cat…