Short Story : Undelivered

Week Zero

In many aspects, all things seem to be too bad. Nothing is pink. Keeping silent seems to be the best way I should do at this period, which may be the same as the rest of my life. Silence is useful for every case. I am very disappointed these days, with no real smile. With you, "Chilly" is too bad a thing you have seen in your life, right? From now on, no "Chilly" appears, and "Chilly" will not be called because if you do not call it, it cannot be spoken. It was named as your favourite spicy food. I am ashamed of what I have done; yes, they are dirty. You cannot like me with such things. I cry much, always. When I have trouble, I wish to have your shoulder to share with me, but of course, you do not care. I know I had too many mistakes to have even your little care. The same as before, mother still usually shouts or uses hard words to me, even in the morning before going out. I cannot explain these situations. Everything cannot be acceptable; she thinks badly of me. I would like to share with you this matter, but because you do not care, I keep it for myself. I am very sad now, but I should bear all things; there is no choice. Life is terrible to me. Love between people is too strange; I cannot understand it. It is too expensive, so I cannot have it from every side. Wish you happy always. My silence may make you happy; I hope so. What about last weeks? 30/09/2014

Week One

It is raining, maybe the whole day after many hot days with sunshine. What are you doing now? Sleeping or what else? Are you sleeping well every day? Some people, including my mother, said that women should marry the second time when they are still young; they should not marry at fifty years old. I do not care about the age of marriage because I do not intend to do so. With your image, I can pass this challenge. Missing you not only now, but the whole day and every day. From here, I always imagine your life over there. Good luck! 25/10/2014

Week Two

I miss you too much; I cannot tell you how much. I cannot bear this. What about you? My heart is always thumping fast, and I worry and want to cry at any time. Imagining the scene of you being with that woman makes me very upset, but comparing it with living without you, without your talks, makes me even sadder. You being with other women, I have to accept. God heals me with you; I cannot prevent myself from this feeling with such a far distance. See you this afternoon; let me have your time today. God will arrange time for us; I am praying for luck. 01/11/2014

....................

She keeps write on, but no result.

The weeks bled into months, each letter sent feeling like a whispered wish cast into a vast, indifferent ocean. The anticipated replies, the digital echoes of his presence, remained faint and infrequent, like distant stars barely visible through a clouded night. Her words, poured onto the virtual page with vulnerability and longing, seemed to meet a quiet resistance, a space where her intensity wasn't fully mirrored.

The initial hope that had fueled her writing began to wane, replaced by a growing sense of unease. The vibrant colours she had yearned for seemed to dim further with each unanswered message or brief, impersonal reply. Silence, in this context, no longer felt like a shared understanding but rather a widening chasm, a testament to a connection that resonated more strongly on her side.

The planned meeting, once a beacon of possibility, remained a distant, unconfirmed dream. His lack of enthusiastic response cast a long shadow, hinting at a different reality, a different level of investment in the connection they had forged through words.

Disappointment settled in, a heavy cloak muffling the initial excitement. The imagined shoulder to lean on remained just that – an imagined comfort in the face of her daily struggles. The hard words at home echoed louder in the silence from him, the feeling of being unheard amplifying her existing vulnerabilities.

Love, she began to understand with a growing ache, was not simply about the intensity of her own feelings but the reciprocal nature of connection. The expense wasn't just in distance but in the uneven exchange of emotion and effort.

Her weekly missives gradually became less frequent, the words tinged with a quiet resignation. The vibrant anticipation faded into a muted acceptance of the reality that her heartfelt expressions weren't finding their intended anchor. Her silence, in the end, wasn't a hopeful offering of peace but a quiet withdrawal, a slow retreat from a connection that felt increasingly one-sided. The love story, as she had envisioned it, remained unwritten, the final chapter a quiet closing of a book that hadn't received an equal response, leaving her with the bittersweet echo of what might have been and the quiet understanding of a path diverging, not converging.