Page 3 of I Hear You

P.S.… I’ve written a new ending to one of your poems. You know the one, my favorite one. If you ever decide to respond, I promise to share it with you.

This email exists only online, but other emails–other emails I’ve printed and carry around the paper copies. The printed ones have my favorite poems he’s shared with me or the short stories he’s written. Ender doesn’t think he’s a talented writer, but he is. His fantasy stories are my favorite. The characters have so much depth and diversity. The writing itself paints the most beautiful pictures in my mind. Other emails I’ve printed are just ones that make me feel better when I’m having a bad day.

There’s one printed email a little more worn than the others. It’s worn from being opened and re-folded so many times. The creases where it folds are showing signs of cracking and tearing. That email has some of the most beautiful words I’ve ever read. Reading it makes my heart swell, ache and break all at the same time. It’s the one email I usually carry in the front pocket of my backpack so I can re-read it when I’m feeling lonely, or sad, or when I’m missing Ender too much. The rest of the printed ones are tucked into the bottom of my jewelry box.

I pick up my notebook and pen from the seat next to me, open it to an empty page, and start writing. I’m not writing anything in particular, just jotting down thoughts and ideas. This is something I do a lot to deal with anxious thoughts or to help me when I have writer's block. Right now I’m doing it because of the former. Writing words that pop into my head as I do my best not to think about how long it’s been since Ender sent his last email. Or how long it’s been since I stopped replying to his emails.

Ender sent his last email eight months ago. It’s been longer than that since I stopped responding to him.

Ender and I met when we were thirteen and I use the term met loosely. We connected in an online community for aspiring writers who shared short stories and poems and, I don’t know, just clicked. We started reading and commenting on each other's posts. Soon it turned to emailing back and forth once we discovered we were the same age. For the first year we talked, we didn’t share any personal details because, well,stranger danger. We quickly realized we were both more honest with each other than anyone else in our lives. We decided not to share details that would lead to finding out who we were, in the real world. In the world outside the one we’d created together through our emails. We agreed not to search for each other on social media or google. I stuck to the promise, even after I stopped responding to his emails.

I don’t even know his last name or where he lives. For all I know, I could have been talking to a middle-aged creep this whole time. Still, I know deep in my gut that isn’t the case. The email conversations were always age appropriate and never made me feel uncomfortable. Our writing even aged with both of us. Going from silly rantings of tweens to deeper conversations of teens. I knew I was safe with Ender.

We told each other our deepest fears and darkest secrets and didn’t want to risk losing our anonymous confidant. We’ve been emailing back and forth for the past five years. Sometimes just once a day. Sometimes every other day. More often than not, it was back-and-forth conversations all day long. That is, until last summer; when Ender made a confession, and I stopped responding to his emails altogether.

I must have dozed off eventually because I woke up to the bus driver announcing that we’d arrived at the Easton station.

I’m here. I’ve made it.

My new life can start and I can leave people like Ender—along with the drama and heartache of it all—in the past. I can develop new relationships and move on. I can heal my broken heart, the one I broke all on my own. People will see me for what I want them to see, without the scars of my past so prominently on display.

Everyone is shuffling around the bus, gathering their things, and making their way to the front. I pull my backpack onto my lap and dig out my phone. No new text messages and no missed calls. I’m not surprised. It’s not as-if I expected Mom to check in on me. Who knows if she even remembers that I was supposed to be leaving for college today? Or if she even remembers I got into college.

Standing, I pull down the single black suitcase I’ve brought with me from the overhead storage. It’s a good-sized suitcase, but it’s scratched to hell. It contains almost my entire life. A few dozen items of clothing, a set of new bed sheets I splurged on, my only other pair of shoes, and a small bag of cheap drugstore toiletries and makeup.

I make my way off the bus, step into the warm sun and, oh my god, thehumidity.The thin t-shirt I’m wearing, which was already damp with sweat, clings to me instantly. It’s like standing in a sauna after running a 5k. Humidity like this didn’t exist back home on the coast of California. If the weather is going to be unbearable, I need to find a second-hand store. I only own one pair of shorts.

I wipe sweat from my neck and move onto the last part of my journey to my new life—finding the local bus stop. Conveniently, it’s right out in front of the main bus station. I find a spot on a low rock wall to sit under the shade of a tree. It’s only a few degrees cooler in the shade, but I’ll take it over baking in the sun. I’ve got about an hour of waiting before the next bus that's stopping at the college arrives. The school is only a few miles away, but I don’t feel like walking down the road with my suitcase in this heat. Waiting for another bus, it is.

Luckily, I convinced my advisor to let me start classes during the summer quarter. It meant explaining my living situation and the Mom situation, but thankfully the advisor didn’t ask too many questions once she had the Cliff Notes version. Having a bed and a place to call, mostly my own, will be worth spending the summer in class. Plus, I’m hoping arriving now, in June instead of August with all the other incoming freshmen, means a better selection of jobs available. In a town like Easton, with a population of less than five thousand, made up of mostly college students–I can’t imagine there are a lot of options to begin with. A job is at the top of my priorities list. The scholarship I received doesn’t quite cover everything I’ll need to survive and definitely doesn’t cover any luxuries or fun.

I take in my surroundings for the first time as I cool off. This whole town is straight out of a Gilmore Girls episode. None of the shops or restaurants appear to be chains, and there are more people jogging and riding bikes than driving cars. All the businesses appear to be locally owned and I don’t recognize any of the names. Across the street is a sports shop, a clothing store where everything looks out of my budget, a bakery, and a drugstore which clearly isn’t a typical CVS or Rite Aide. The sign above it actually just reads “Drugstore”. The busiest place on the block is a diner. My stomach growls, admonishing me for not having eaten since four this morning.

There must be some snacks in my backpack somewhere. A half-empty bag of hot chips sits at the bottom of my bag that I fish out and start devouring. Before I know it, my mouth is on fire and when I go to chug from my water bottle, it’s empty. A vague memory of passing a water fountain walking over here comes to mind. Needing immediate relief for my burning mouth, I throw on my backpack, grab the empty water bottle, and start the hunt. When the shiny silver fountain comes into view, I rush over and start filling my bottle. After chugging half the first fill and filling it again, I cup one hand under the water to splash my face and ease the salty taste of sweat. If the fountain stream was bigger, I swear I’d dunk my entire head in it just to cool off.

I’ve been standing at this fountain too long. I turn around to head back to my shade and my suitcase. Except… there is no longer a suitcase in the shade of the tree.

Oh. My. God.

How could I have been so stupid? I never leave my belongings unattended. I know better.

Great, the heat is frying my brain.

I rush to the tree, looking around. My suitcase is definitely gone. There's no one else waiting at the bus stop. My heart sinks as I drop to the grass and tears start streaming down my face, completely out of my control. Practically everything I own is in my suitcase. There wasn’t much in there, but it’s all I have. I think of the new bed sheets. I’ve been dreaming of crawling into those new sheets for weeks. All of my savings won’t even be enough to replace everything. Between the hiccups I now have from trying to control my sobs, I try to remind myself that I still have my backpack. And in my backpack is my cell phone, laptop, and jewelry box. I was at least smart enough to keep my most valuable items in my backpack and keep a better eye on it.

“Um, are you okay?”

Pulling my face from my hands, I look up to where the deep voice came from. I find the most incredible hazel eyes looking down at me from a tall, toned, and stupidly gorgeous guy who looks to be about my age. Instantly embarrassed, I wipe the tears from my face. The stranger is standing perfectly in front of the sun, so it’s casting a halo of light around him. He looks like an angel. A sun-tanned, dark-haired, chiseled angel.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to wipe the last of the tears from my face. “I’m just an idiot.”

“And why are you an idiot?”

“I left my luggage here while I filled up my water bottle and now it’s gone.”

“Oh! That was yours? I saw Jesse take it.”

“Jesse? Who’s Jesse!?” I say.

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