Letters from Infinity

I didn’t do it to hurt you. I know you think I did, and you have every right to feel this way. I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t hurt you. I guess I wasn’t really thinking when I sent you this the first time. I guess I was wrong. I hate being wrong.

She took her pen and crossed out the paragraph before crushing the thin white paper beneath the strength of her shaking hand. She was angry. She felt wronged. She wanted redemption. She didn’t know why she felt the need to apologize for something that wasn’t her fault. So why was she writing this? She felt responsible. She felt like it was her fault. She started over.

Eric,

I know you’re mad, but you’ve got to hear me out. I was so scared. I was too scared to even think about breathing around you. How could I have just walked up to you? I though you would have looked at me once and run in the other direction. I know I was wrong. I know you’re mad. I spent months writing to you, pouring my heart out, and then you found out what was going on. I know how that seems to you. But I wasn’t playing with your heart when I wrote you these. I just wanted you to know. I needed to you to know what I had been feeling. I hope someday you’ll be able to understand that despite the circumstances. I guess there’s no reason to hide behind my alias any longer, but for old times sake:
Love,
∞

She read it over and over again, until her eyes grew tried of passing over the same words too many times. She wanted him to know how much she cared for him, even if the only way she could express it was through her amateur written word. She wished she could speak. She wished she wasn’t born with this disease, this curse. She hated being silenced. She hated how it created such a barrier between them. It was such a large factor in their relationship; she feared they would never be anything more. She was dreading the next day. She was anxious about taping this particular letter to the bottom of the cherry wood art table. She wished she didn’t have to do it, but she had a feeling this would be her final reply. After that day in class Quiet Girl would disappear, and Eric could forget about her. She never thought a mute girl like her could cause the world so much trouble.

She stood from her desk and grabbed a small envelope that had been resting on her bedside table. She opened a small drawer in the desk as she sat back down, pulling a small metal compass from it. She drew a small, but neat circle on the front of the envelope. She folded her note and placed it between the small spaces in the envelope. She licked it and sealed it with care.

As she did this she couldn’t help but remember the first time she had done nearly the same thing at the beginning of the year. She remembered fighting with her parents about wanting to take an art class in a regular school. They only said no because they were worried about her. They didn’t want her to be shunned or made fun of. They didn’t realize that she didn’t care about any of that. She just wanted to paint. She remembered being so angry with them that she wrote down all her feelings onto a piece of paper. She ranted relentlessly. She vented about how much she hated being mute, how much she wished to be normal, and her desire to yell and scream out her thoughts like any other person could. Of course she had to spread her anger, but anonymously. So a week later when she had signed herself up for the class without her parents knowledge, she came to class, stuck the angry letter on the bottom of the table and left her feelings there for anyone to find. She signed the letters with the symbol for infinity, to symbolize the meaning of her name Aina, which meant “always” in Finnish.

When she left the letter under the table, she had never expected someone to find it, much less respond, but imagine her surprise when the next day she found a response to her angry letter taped to the bottom of the table, written on smudged binder paper, signed with a simple circle.