Andy's life was like clockwork. Get up, shower, eat, go to work, come home, eat, sleep, repeat. Some days he didn't get out of bed. Some days he didn't eat. The one piece that was always, without a doubt, consistent was getting home. He got home at 7:30 every night he worked. He didn't cover shifts or stay late any longer, because he didn't need to. He no longer needed to try and bring in extra money so he could go to the movies or good restaurants or buy nice food. Who would he share it with?
Andy hadn't given himself an answer to that question since Allison had left.
It had been six months. Six months since Andy had found that letter in his briefcase. Six months since Andy had his heart ripped from his chest when he walked into an empty apartment. Six months since Allison had left.
She did what she'd promised. At first, anyway. He got one or two letters a week from her, at first long and detailed and then growing shorter while the time between them grew. From two a week to one, then one every two or three weeks, then one a month. He hadn't gotten one from her since early August. He didn't know where she was, who she was with, what she was doing. All he had were the sloppy blue lines on that crumpled paper kept on his end table. He read and reread it every night, like a child might read a bedtime story:
Andy,
I'm still doing well. Painting and drawing a lot, and I got a part time job, so I'm making a bit of money. I'm living with a roommate right now. I don't know when I'll be home. Soon? Maybe. Don't wait up, sporto. I love you.
~Allison
Andy got a wave of sickness every time he read it. She was off somewhere, with some roommate, working a job that probably didn't make her happy. But she'd be home soon. Every night Andy would read it, and before tiredness caught up with him he would tell himself that 'soon' could mean the next day.
It never did. He always woke up the next day, still without knowing where Allison was. He went to bed every night and told himself 'soon' was the next day. His delusion clouded his reality. Sometimes he swore that he heard her squeals of satisfaction in the living room. Sometimes he thought he would go into the bedroom at night and see her curled up on his side, covered by every blanket they owned. Sometimes he thought she would never come back. That was as close to reality as he wanted to get. He always slipped back into delusion.
The six month mark passed and slowly became seven. Andy read the letter every morning and night. He was fairly certain it was the last he would ever hear from Allison.
On October 25th, Andy got a letter. He saw her name written in the same sloppy blue lines and swore that it was a dream. In a daze, slightly snapping out of his delusion, he ripped open the envelope and tossed it aside, staring at the writing on the paper:
Andy,
I'll be home soon.
~Allison
And that was it. That was all it said, in the same familiar blue writing he had been looking at every night for two months. Those few words were enough. They were enough to send Andy to the floor in tears. He practically had Allison there with him. He knew, deep down, that 'soon' wasn't the next day; but he also knew that she really was going to come home. A tear fell from his face to the paper and landed on the word 'home', blurring the ink. Andy didn't notice.
It was the first time he had really cried since he found the empty apartment.
Time moved slowly in Andy's world. Every morning he woke up without Allison, and every night he went to bed without her, hoping that the next day would be 'soon'. It never was. He slowly grew back into his habits of delusion; telling himself every next day was 'soon', reading and rereading the letter before he went to sleep, thinking Allison was there sometimes. Eventually he realized that he couldn't put a label on soon because it wasn't his definition of soon; it was Allison's. For him, 'soon' meant the next day or the next week. For Allison, soon could mean anywhere from the next day to a year later. After Allison had left, he became numb to her definitions of things because he no longer had to live with them. Now they were back, and he was tired of waiting to find out when Allison's 'soon' was. But he had to wait; there was nothing he could do to make her come home any faster. Some days he thought she'd never come back; all he had as confirmation was the blue ink on crumpled paper. Most people would assume that Allison wasn't going to come home, but Andy knew her. He knew that Allison took words and promises far too literally to break ones that she had written down.
Weeks passed. Andy waited.
On December 25th, Andy got another letter. He wasn't sure if it was meant as a Christmas gift, but he took it as one. He went through the familiar routine of looking at her name, tearing the envelope open and tossing it aside. When the paper was unfolded, he ran his fingers over the sloppy blue lines she wrote in. He remembered that she had always hated her handwriting; he thought it made everything she wrote look like poetry.
Andy,
Don't wait up, sporto.
~Allison
For as long as Andy had known her, Allison had written in short words and cryptic messages. He only liked them when she was there to explain.
The cycle of reading the letter over and over, thinking every next day was soon started again. The only difference came in Andy's understanding that Allison knew. She had to know that the letters were all he thought about. They filled his mind and stopped him from sleeping like he was a puppet and Allison and the letters were the puppet masters. When he closed his eyes to sleep at night he could still see the letters and words forming her cryptic poetry. When he woke up in the morning the first thing he did was read them. It was automatic, almost like he couldn't control it. He didn't like the feeling; he didn't like the power Allison held over him when she wasn't even there.
More weeks passed by, though Andy barely noticed. All he knew were the letters; all he knew was that Allison knew he was waiting. He didn't know when she would be home. Sometimes he thought maybe she didn't even know.
On February 25th, Andy got a letter. That was when he realized that it was almost a game; he got a letter every two months exactly. Then he would slave over them, reading and rereading and trying to figure out just exactly when Allison would come back home. He hadn't figured it out when the he got the third cryptic letter:
Andy,
I love you.
~Allison
Andy collapsed to the couch and began to cry because God, it had been so long since those words came from Allison.
They weren't said; she wasn't there to say them in reality, but he could practically hear her. He could hear her saying it before he left for work and when he got home at night, when they had made up after a fight and when they were in bed listening to nothing but the world outside and each other's voices. All of those moments combined to one and Andy thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. Every time she had ever said it came back to him and this one became his favorite because it was certain. It was written down; words on paper were promises to Allison, and she didn't break promises.
Allison was coming home. Soon. Andy knew it.
A month passed. Allison wasn't home yet.
In Allison's absence, Andy had taken to going to the park frequently. It was something Allison had done to think and get away from stress; he wondered if she did it anymore. He liked to take the letters with him and read them somewhere besides the apartment because the apartment reminded him too much of Allison. It wasn't a great idea; the park reminded him of her too.
That night, he sat for hours in the park, reading the three letters. I'll be home soon. Don't wait up, sporto. I love you.
All he had ever gotten from them was her silent confirmation that she'd be home. And she knew; she had to know that he was practically controlled by the letters. He continued reading, so oblivious to the world around him that he didn't notice when he was reading by streetlamps rather than sunlight. He didn't notice when midnight came and it slipped from March 24th to March 25th. He didn't stop reading until someone spoke behind him.
"Don't you listen to anything? I said don't wait up, sporto."