He wrote a letter for her consisting of twelve hundred and seventy one words, across six A4 sized sheets, stacked one after the other, preferring not to write double-sided and neatly placed it inside a plastic file which was embossed with the logo of his company, which he didn’t mind because it was the contents of the letter he was concerned about, not the file. He had written it on his laptop, the previous night and hand written it at ten in the morning, being late in starting his day, his body compensating for the previous night, a night of restless sleep punctured by dreams where he had been attached around a giant cockroach, his body impaled on its right antennae.
He didn’t know anything about her except her full name and the fact that they were connected on LinkedIn. He didn’t even have her phone number, his confidence in the fact that she would text him after he had handed over his business card four days ago, now made him look desperate, which he wasn’t. The letter wasn’t written as a means to impress her, but rather formed a note of introduction, a fresh refreshing change in a world where people saw and met multiple people in a day, making it rather hard to convey first impressions in the right manner, especially when it was someone of the opposite sex.
Her arrival into the co-working space missed, at twelve p.m he messaged her on LinkedIn, after seeing that she was online.
“Hey, are you around? Was wondering if we could catch up for a bit”
She replied almost instantly.
“Hey Sins, what’s up? Was kinda held up with work. Let me see if we can catch up sometime later”
“Sure, let me know”
By six p.m in the evening, he was sure she had left the office. He wasn’t sad or heartbroken. He was used to people not messaging or replying back, because he worked in a sales role, in the sports industry, in a country where sports was relatively not taken seriously. He stayed back at office till eight, his eyes drifting over and over to his LinkedIn app, awaiting the small notification that would say (1). But it never came. He reached home at nine, humming a few sad tunes along the way, the familiar stabs that he would feel when feeling lonely, beginning to creep along his chest, slowly and steadily, as if making their way towards his heart, through the streams of blood coursing through his arteries and veins.
He had begun smoking again, not because of today’s episode about the letter, which remained inside his bag like a piece of relic from the past, no, he had begun smoking again after a break of twelve days because his mind had asked him to. He had felt an inner inclination vibrating inside his head, cajoling him to pick it up again, and he had done so, at its bidding, but also chiding himself for the lies he had written in the letter. In retrospect they weren’t lies. They were things about working out regularly, music lessons and speaking publicly, images of himself that he liked to picture as, but still not a habit, bursting into his mind in spurts, but dying down soon after, in a day or two.
He wondered how far he would go if he took up those habits again. Would he achieve an image of himself that he pictured inside his mind everyday, before he slept?
The last thing he thought before he dozed was her.