He leaves the coffee shop at five o’clock every day. Today is no different, except that this time an unpresuming envelope lies on the wooden table. The bells wedged in the door jingle, signaling his departure. Two cups of coffee sit idly, the faint memory of steam lingering around the chilled surfaces like a ghost.

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Now, soft hands push the ajar chair between the table’s legs. They brush the spilled sugar into a pile of sweet snow and let it topple over the edge, some of the tiny avalanche caught by a napkin before the rest cascades to the ground.

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All around her, the air smells of crushed dreams and espresso beans.

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“Sir? You forgot something!”

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The street is lifeless. A sigh echoes in the quiet and hands set the delicate, coffee stained paper down.

Curious eyes notice the lighter blots scattered on the envelope. They are a window into the thick papers hidden within. When fingers brush the drying liquid away, some paper flakes off, revealing the beginnings of words.

 

Suddenly, the shop is empty. An overwhelming sound of silence is the loudest of all. There are no witnesses as the gentle hands shift to prying ones, carefully shaking the letters out. They tumble onto the cedar wood, napkins and notebook paper with pen scrawled over them ripped at the edges, unfolding themselves as if they’re begging to be read.

 

Hello, no one.

I have realized that I am sinking. The water is up to my knees, pooling into my socks and weighing me down. Sometimes, the storm will let up. A little ray of sunshine will wave down at me, and I, like a fool, will smile up and think that maybe this is the end.

But like clockwork, the clouds gather again. The prickles will morph into droplets that will drag down my boat and bring it one foot closer to the ocean floor. The best I can do is keep rowing against the hungry waves.

These thoughts pace through my head. Under every sunny moment, there’s a quiet dread for the roar of thunder that I know will come. If I keep this all bottled up any longer, the dam holding it all back is going to burst.

No matter how much anyone says they love me, they are not ready to clean up a flood that large. It would take more paper towels than this world has to offer.

 

Hello, no one.

Is it wrong of me to want a scar?

Not a scar - anything, really, that will tell others who I was.

The thing about sinking is that there is no evidence that you drowned. Nothing other than the water in your lungs that can easily be pumped out. Everything you say is an excuse until you’re gone, and even then there is no one left to tell your story except the people who will paint you the way they want to.

After I sink, I want my story to be told by my scars. I don’t want to be another sob story or unsolved mystery or number divided, multiplied, added in a statistic. I am more than that.

My tears won’t leave a scar. But maybe these letters will tell my story.

 

Hello, no one.

I turned to the island I sailed but was met with empty water. The others I started my journey with have abandoned ship, dived over into the murky abyss below. I am left staring into the dark sky that hasn’t felt the breath of sun in months.

I have never known the coolness of isolation that is taking my throat in its claws and closing in until now.

 

Hello, no one.

    Today, the clouds came down from the sky to envelop me in a numbing fog. I have marinated in the feeling of sadness for too long. On days like this, when lightning strikes around my small boat, the wind howls, and I can’t see two feet in front of me, I think that it would be easier to stop rowing altogether.

It’s easier to sink when you have nothing to float for.

 

Hello, no one.

Does it count as a hello if it’s the last one I will write? Not really. So I suppose that this is a goodbye.

I am done.

My boat has rocked around enough.

My hands ache from the hard paddle. My eyes are blurry with salt and marred from the countless sleepless nights out at sea.

I’m not scared anymore. Just tired. Numb. The next wave will wash me over, and slowly I will melt into the water.

Thank you, no one.

 

The bells of the shop jingle.

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“Sorry, I forgot something on the table-"

 

His eyes stare at the motley of letters scattered on the table, wide in disbelief. Words take shape and travel from gentle hands to a quiet tongue. They slip from her lips in a jumbled mess that hasn’t been thought out or planned.

 

“Let me be your lifejacket.”

 

Somehow, they are perfect.

 

“...okay.”