Hidden in Her Letters

pretend to wear a smile

Dear Annie,

Uncle Kalvin came over for dinner.

It was... unbearable. Difficult doesn't even begin to describe it. Sitting through that meal felt like torment, like the walls were closing in on me. Every second stretched out, suffocating, like it would never end. It's the worst kind of helplessness, the kind where you have to smile and nod and pretend everything's fine when you're crumbling inside.

Dad still doesn't know everything—thank God for that. Sometimes I think it's for his own good, not knowing. But Jack... Jack has been hovering, watching me like I'm about to break at any moment. He doesn't think I'm doing okay, and I guess I can't blame him for that. He's trying to help, I know he is, but it's just... too much. Everything feels like it's suffocating me.

The worst part about holding these memories isn't the pain. It's the loneliness. Memories aren't meant to stay trapped inside—they're supposed to be shared. But how do you share something that would only hurt more if you said it aloud?

I don't know.

Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe deeply enough to fill my lungs with the air they need. No matter how much I try, it's like I'm drowning in the weight of everything. And no one else can see it. Everything around me feels like it's caving in, and I'm just... stuck.

But I'm okay. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

– Annie

Leo read the letter he once again swapped with the old one from her locker. He had been doing this for a week now and still hadn't figured out how to talk to Annie though he wanted to.

He couldn't stop himself from reading the letters that were meant for nobody but Annie. He was filled with concern and curiosity.

While he learnt she had many secrets, there was never anything clear enough in her letters for him to grasp the slightest understanding of Annie or what she was keeping to herself. There were odd aches in his heart, thinking about all she carried on her own. Some part of him wanted to help her carry her burdens, yet he knew it wasn't his place, nor was he able to figure out what it was about her that had him so intent on sticking his nose in all his business.

He knew what he was doing was wrong in so many ways but he wanted to help.

He didn't even know how to approach her because how could he explain anything without telling her the truth-the despicable truth of what he was doing, invading her privacy and any trust he had yet to gain?

He found himself smoking more often than not. He couldn't find another way to numb the choking feeling he felt every time he read her writing. He felt an unusual type of pain he couldn't quite explain.

Sometimes the letters were poems.

The other day, one simply read:

It's so much easier
to pretend none of this matters,
to force a smile and act like I'm fine,
than to admit the truth—
that my heart is on the verge of breaking.

How was he supposed to know what to think? He didn't even know how to approach her, talk to her. And all he wanted to do was sit in her presence for a mere few minutes without causing her any trouble.

✉

It was cool outside, the kind of crisp air that prickled at your skin, but Annie remained on the bleachers, huddled over a sheet of paper. She liked writing her thoughts down—there was a comfort in the act itself. But she never revisited what she wrote. Each letter held memories she wanted to forget, emotions too raw to experience again. Yet, no matter how much she tried to leave them behind, the feelings lingered, clinging to her every day.