In the slums, the post comes two days out of the week. Sometimes, it never shows. After he left, leaving her with a promise, she waited.
Every time the carrier was due to come around the corner with a handful of envelopes she would be waiting. Hovering near the window, patiently waiting for a glimpse of blue to indicate the post was arriving. When he appeared she would tear out of the house, running down the pathway to catch him before he even made it to the house.
It was always the same question of longing, the same shuffling through letters and the same disappointing feeling when nothing was there.
There were no letters, no rambling notes filled with nonsense about the silliest things.
No news, no matter how bleak.
After a few months, she stopped running out to assault the carrier with her little masked anticipation. Soon afterward she stopped waiting at the window.
Eventually, she stopped looking at the letters altogether, knowing that nothing was coming. He wasn't writing, there was no promise.
The scent on the pillow she cherished began to fade, replaced by the bitterness of her tears. The warmth of kisses cooling in her memory.
She told herself that she hadn't really loved him as much as she thought. It was just a childish crush on a childish man. She didn't need him and didn't care that he hadn't returned.
And the lies helped to heal her broken heart.
