Page 197 of Rush
I sit by the piano, working on the same three chords.
You make me feel like heaven
I think about you twenty-four seven
Got me playing your touch on repeat
The way you move without missing a beat
Just as I lose myself in the lyrics and the melody, the buzzer interrupts my thoughts.
I’m home alone—Riley is out with some new fling. Could it be Broderick?
I press the intercom. “Hello.”
Silence.
That’s…strange.
I walk over to the entrance and peek through the peephole before opening the door. No one’s there. I glance down the hall—completely empty.
My foot brushes against something, I look down to see a book placed on the doormat.
Weird.
I pick it up, taking it inside, the cover’s worn from age.
I flip it over and my stomach drops.
A first edition ofLetters to a Young Poet.
Something fromAlex’spersonal collection, a gift from his sister Ingrid—an avid collector of poetry—to him.
My heart stops. Noticing a part in the pages, my fingers tremble as I open it.
I gasp.
Wedged inside is a photo of me I haven’t seen before, black and white, one of the more intimate shots he took of me from ourtime in Sweden. I’m sprawled on the bed, wearing lace panties, my arms barely covering my breasts.
The photo stuffed between pages 22 and 23. A line underlined in ink—not pencil.
“My soul longs for you, it knows you deep in my bones. My heart beats to only a rhythm our souls dance to. Times may test us, seasons may part us, but we my love are endless.”
The ink bleeds through the paper slightly.
Running my thumb over the quote, feeling the words. My mouth goes dry.
Alex.
Why is he doing this? The social media posts are distant and bothersome, but this—thisis intentional and tangible.
What is he trying to tell me? And why would he just drop and run without so much as a conversation? Something about it feels off, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I open my messages. His name’s still there, buried under all of his rejected phone calls. My fingers hover.
Why would you send this? Please stop it.
Delete.
