Dear Stranger · 01—07

01/07

Dear stranger,

I don't know what brought you here. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the wedding. Or maybe you were just looking for someone to talk to, and happened to find him.

His name is Adrian Mercer.

He wears those thin, rectangular glasses. He makes terrible jokes when he's nervous. And if you ever catch him looking at houses he can't afford, don't be surprised. He used to do that all the time. I know because, once upon a time, I was the person sitting beside him.

I suppose I should tell you something before you go any further. I didn't make all of this up.

02/07

We lived in a little apartment in Brooklyn. The heater barely worked. Adrian tried to fix it once, spent almost an hour on the floor, and eventually announced that the radiator had won. I laughed until my stomach hurt. He looked offended, of course. He was very good at pretending to be offended.

We didn't have much money. Sometimes we ate dinner on the couch because there wasn't enough room for a proper table. He used to show me pictures of houses in Portland. Houses with gardens. Houses with kitchens big enough for two people. He said he'd take me there someday. He said we'd get married there.

I remember laughing at him for being so sure. And I remember how easily I believed him.

That's the part I think about sometimes. Not the wedding. Not even the goodbye. Just how ordinary everything felt when we still thought we had time.

03/07

His father died during our third winter together.

I went with him to Portland. We attended the funeral, helped with the arrangements, and stayed while he tried to make sure his mother would be all right. She had never really liked me. One evening, I heard her tell Adrian that she didn't want us to get married. He never told me what she'd said, and I never told him I'd heard it.

At three in the morning, he came back looking so tired that I hardly recognized him. He sat beside me and took my hand. He said he couldn't leave his mother alone in Portland.

Then he asked me to marry him.

I'd just received a promotion in New York. I'd worked so hard to get there, and I wasn't ready to leave it behind. I told him I couldn't stay. He was the first one to cry. He was also the first one to say we should break up.

I don't know why I still remember that so clearly. Maybe because he was asking me to marry him only a few minutes before.

04/07

I wish I could tell you that one of us was wrong. It would make this easier to explain.

Sometimes I wonder whether I should have stayed. Whether I could have found another job. Whether his mother might eventually have accepted me. Other times, I remember how hard I'd worked for the life I was building in New York, and how frightened I was of losing myself in someone else's future.

I loved him. I think he loved me just as much. But love didn't tell us what to do.

I remember him trying to smile through his tears. I remember him making one last awful joke about how successful I was going to become. And I remember asking for neither a promise nor a second chance. We just held each other.

I don't remember how long. Long enough that, for one foolish moment, I thought maybe neither of us would have to let go.

But we did.

05/07

Years later, I went back to Portland for his wedding. I hadn't been invited, and I didn't tell any of our friends I was coming, either. When someone recognized me outside the venue, I asked them not to tell Adrian. I wasn't there to interrupt anything. I only wanted to see him.

There was a narrow space between the doors. Through it, I could see the flowers, the lights, and the woman standing beside him. Olivia. She was beautiful, and they looked happy together. I wanted to be happy for them, too.

When they exchanged rings, I found myself lifting my hand without even realizing it. I imagined what it would feel like to have a ring slipped onto my finger—and for a split second, I could almost feel it. When I finally looked down, my ring finger was cold and bare. I gave a small, bitter smile at my own foolishness and lowered my hand, wiping the tears from my eyes.

Just as I turned away, I thought I caught Adrian looking at me. Or perhaps I'd only imagined that, too. There were so many people around him, and I couldn't be sure. I left before I could find out.

I came all that way to see him, and left without saying hello.

I hope you never have to discover how quietly a heart can break.

06/07

At the airport, I sent him a message.

'Congratulations on your wedding.'

He replied sooner than I expected. I won't tell you what we said after that. Some things can stay between the two people who were there.

I used to hate flying. It always meant leaving somewhere I wanted to stay, or someone I wasn't ready to say goodbye to. That day, I sat near the boarding gate and watched the rain run down the windows. I thought about our apartment in Brooklyn, the broken radiator, the houses we couldn't afford, and the way Adrian used to push his glasses up when he was trying not to cry.

And I thought about the woman who would get to learn all those little things about him now.

I wanted to be happy for them. I was happy for them.

And it hurt.

Both things were true.

When my flight was called, I got up. I didn't look for another reason to stay.

07/07

So now you know why I wrote him.

I couldn't change what happened to us. I couldn't go back to that night in Portland and ask a different question. I couldn't walk into his wedding and pretend the years between us hadn't happened.

But I could write a story.

I could put him somewhere a stranger might find him, still wearing those glasses, still making those terrible jokes. And I could leave a door open.

Maybe you'll call his name. Maybe you'll walk away without letting him know you came. Maybe you'll find a way to love him again. Or maybe you'll decide that the kindest thing you can do is leave him to the life he's chosen.

I don't know. And I don't want to decide for you.

There's just one thing I'd like to ask. If he makes a terrible joke, laugh at it once in a while. He'll probably pretend to be offended if you don't.

Thank you for finding him, dear stranger.

I wrote his past.

But I never wrote your ending.

That part is yours.