Chapter 4 – Adrian's First Reply
The envelope arrived with the rest of the morning mail, tucked between bills and an advertisement for a hardware store he would never visit. Adrian nearly missed it, distracted by the dull ritual of sorting paper into piles — important, trash, ignore until later.
It was the weight that caught him. Thicker than the thin advertisements. Firmer.
He turned it over in his hands. Plain cream, no return address, only the program's forwarding label printed in block letters. The flap had been sealed with unusual care — pressed flat, not a wrinkle in sight.
He stood at the counter for a long time, staring at it. His pulse picked up in a way that felt both foolish and frightening.
When he finally slit it open with his thumb, the sound of tearing paper seemed louder than it should. Inside: a single folded sheet.
The handwriting was hesitant, slanted, uneven. He unfolded it gently, as though too much force might erase the words.
I don't know who you are, and maybe that's the point. I don't talk about these things with anyone else. Not my sister, not my friends, not anyone. But I'm tired of being invisible. Some nights it feels like I could vanish and no one would notice.
He read it once, quickly. Then again, slowly, tracing the slope of each uneven line. The words pressed too hard into the page, the ink dark where the writer's hand had trembled.
Invisible.
Something in his chest tightened. He knew that feeling too well — not the absence of people, but the absence of being seen.
For a long while he sat at the counter, the letter spread open in front of him, his coffee cooling untouched. The world outside went on — a dog barked in the neighbor's yard, a plane droned faintly overhead — but here, in the kitchen, it was only him and the paper.
Finally, he pushed his chair back, went to his desk, and pulled out his own stationery. The paper felt strange under his hand, as though it expected more from him than he had to give.
His handwriting came slower, heavier than hers. He pressed too hard, the pen catching where his hand hesitated. The lines looked uneven, almost brooding, but he didn't tear the page. He forced himself to keep going.
Adrian's Letter
(written in his heavy, deliberate script, with slight smudges where his hand lingered)
I don't think you're invisible. I think sometimes we get so good at hiding that the world forgets to look. But that doesn't mean no one sees. Even now, I see you.
You're not weak for writing this. Weakness is pretending we don't need anyone. What you did took more strength than most people realize.
Thank you for trusting a stranger.
He stared at the words for a long time. They didn't feel adequate, not for the weight her letter carried, but they were honest. He folded the page carefully, aligning the edges with care, as though neatness could make up for everything he couldn't say.
As he sealed the envelope, he noticed the ink had smudged faintly at the edge of the page, where his palm had rested too long. He almost redid the whole thing. Then he stopped.
Maybe the smudge mattered. Maybe it showed that he was real, that he wasn't trying to be perfect.
He slid the letter into the outgoing pile and sat back, exhaling slowly.
For the rest of the day, he carried the echo of her words with him: I'm tired of being invisible.
And for the first time in months, when the noise pressed against him at night, there was something else in his head too — not just memories, not just loss, but the thought of another person, writing in the dark.