007: The Letter Dated Two Years Ago
1172 Words
You know what I learned tonight?
When you accidentally marry a secretive billionaire with a fake coma, you stop trusting furniture.
I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean literally—bookshelves, chairs, rugs… they’re all liars. Fancy liars. Beautiful liars. Laced with gold and hiding secrets like it’s a game of damn Clue.
Which is why I found myself at 2:19 a.m. back in the hidden library again, flashlight tucked under my arm, hair up in a bun, wearing a hoodie I stole from the closet because it smelled like him and my life is one long contradiction.
I was determined to figure out what was behind that locked shelf.
But the padlock wouldn’t budge.
So instead, I started searching the rest of the room.
And then—I found the book.
At first, I thought it was just a weathered old novel tucked behind a broken globe. It didn’t stand out. No golden binding. No title. Just dark leather and dust.
But the moment I touched it—my fingertips buzzed. Like a jolt of static electricity snapped against my palm.
Inside?
A single envelope.
Unsealed.
Yellowed. Fragile.
Addressed in slanted ink.
To: Hyacinth
In case I don’t get to say this to you in person.
My name.
In handwriting I’ve never seen before.
But somehow recognized.
I sank slowly into the chair and stared at the letter like it might vanish.
A letter.
Written two years ago.
To me.
Before our “one-night stand.”
Before the coma.
Before everything.
I read it.
Of course I did.
“Hyacinth,”
You won’t know me when you find this. Or maybe you will—but you won’t remember me the way I remember you.
There’s something cruel about fate, isn’t there? The way it teases us with timing. I met you once again, and it ruined me forever.
You were walking through the park in a red dress, laughing at nothing. Not for anyone. Just laughing because you were alive. I think that was the first time I believed in something again.
You looked at the sky like you were trying to make it jealous.
I watched you help an abducted boy find his way back. You didn’t care even if you were wounded by saving someone. You didn’t know anyone was watching and neither waited for someone to help. You just did it. You didn’t even take a picture, like most people would and flaunt it on social media—not like you have one.
But…You saved someone, Hyacinth.
And you didn’t even ask for anything back.
I wish I could say I met you properly. That I introduced myself. That I didn’t spend months hiding behind corners, building up the nerve to speak to you. But I didn’t. I was afraid.
Afraid that if I touched something real, it would disappear.
I’ve lived my life building fortresses. You were the first person who made me want to open the door.
I wrote this in case something happens before I get the chance. Before I tell you face to face.
If you’re reading this, it means the truth is closer than ever. And you deserve all of it.
But I’m asking you—wait.
Don’t run.
Please.
—Dark.
I didn’t cry.
Not at first.
My head starts to hurt.
Not just a dull throb—no. It’s sharp. Splitting. Like a sudden flash of lightning cleaving through the calm of my skull. I winced, clutching the side of my head as a wave of something hot and electric slammed through me.
And then—
A voice. His voice.
Low. Ragged. Full of that ache that makes your lungs shrink without warning.
“I miss you… Hyacinth…”
The words echoed in my ears like they’d been buried somewhere deep—forgotten, dust-covered, waiting to be unearthed by the cruel hands of memory.
My knees buckled slightly, and I gripped the edge of the dresser like my life depended on it. My vision blurred for a split second. The world spun in slow motion, like a broken carousel I couldn’t step off.
Flashes.
Too fast. Too raw.
His breath against my skin.
The scent of hospital-grade linen.
My fingers tangled in jet-black hair as I sobbed into his shoulder.
A wedding ring—glinting under dim light.
The smell of peach tea—and blood.
The soft whisper of his voice, desperate, clinging—
“You said forever. You said you'd stay.” I saw Dark’s soft face.
I gasped. My chest burned like I’d been running underwater, lungs grasping for something—anything—that felt like oxygen.
But it wasn’t just breath I was looking for.
The memories weren’t linear. They were chaotic, mismatched puzzle pieces flinging themselves at me with reckless force.
A papaya.
A scream.
The sound of a man sobbing my name.
“I miss you… Hyacinth…”
My name—spoken like a prayer and a wound at the same time.
And just like that, tears slipped down the corners of my eyes. Not from sadness. Not even from the pain.
But from recognition.
I sat there, numb, staring at my name written in careful loops. Trying to comprehend what it meant.
He saw me before I ever saw him.
He saw me before I ever saw him?
And not just at the bar.
Two years ago.
He’d been there.
In the park.
But why does it…
I thought that day was ordinary. Just one of the rare ones where I wasn’t glued to my work phone or crying in a coffee shop bathroom. I remember laughing at a kite getting stuck in a tree. I remember helping a crying kid who couldn’t find his dad and almost got abducted by someone.
And now I know—he saw it.
He saw me.
I sat in the library for an hour.
Then another.
The letter didn’t change.
But something inside me did.
Because suddenly, all the puzzle pieces I’d been throwing around weren’t just suspicion and chaos anymore—they were personal.
And worse?
They were true.
Half of me says, it is. And the other half notifies this is just the work of the devil so I’d fall into his trap, and slaughter me when he fully gain my trust.
7:45 a.m. — Breakfast
I didn’t dress up.
I wore a loose black tee, pulled my hair into a bun, and skipped makeup. Not because I didn’t care—but because I needed to walk into the conservatory with exactly one emotion—Composed rage.
When I arrived, he was already seated. Reading again. Wearing a black dress shirt. Cufflinks. Watch. Looking expensive and unreadable.
“Morning,” he said, like we were a couple in a normal marriage.
“Don’t.”
He blinked. “Don’t what?”
I sat down. Kept my eyes locked on him. “Don’t pretend this is breakfast. Or civil. Or that I haven’t read a letter you wrote two years ago with my name on it.”
Silence.
- Writer
