Graphic by Andrew Mazariegos-Ovalle/The Olaf Messenger
Another day passes by. It’s cold and windy, the line to the cafeteria is way too long, and the practice rooms are full. I walk to my mailbox. I had ordered a Hello Kitty tramp-stamp sticker for the van I bought from the trumpet professor on Etsy, and I checked my mailbox every day to see if it had finally arrived. It must have been about a week before Valentine’s Day when I first noticed the small white envelope. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, but as a girl, I knew what it was. The nervous round letters, the nickname: it’s a love letter for my mailbox buddy, his name carved delicately on the white paper. The envelope has heart stickers and I feel genuinely happy for him but don’t think too much of it.
However, as the days go by, I notice the envelope is still there. It is almost wilted, wanting to be picked up. There is always the possibility that it’s his grandma, wishing him a happy Valentine’s Day. But it is handwritten, personal. It seems romantic. I contemplate opening the envelope and reading it. I could never. I have always been a respectful mailbox buddy. But he needs to know. Valentine’s Day comes, and my boyfriend sends me flowers, and I get cards from my bosses. My buddy’s envelope is still there. And so it is on Feb. 15, when I finally get my tramp-stamp. It’s like I have made up a story in my mind. There is a girl, looking out her dorm window in another college, maybe a hometown friend? Maybe I am reading too much into it, but I see her eagerly waiting for a thank-you text. I have now told my friends about it. Valentine’s season has hit my friend group hard, but we still celebrated all together, ignoring our little problems and seeking shelter in each other’s company. And so we sing to “Ribs” by Lorde in the car. My friend with the flannel agrees to have lunch with us more often, seeing as we have been missing him. We talk about my mailbox buddy. We laugh. Could it be possible that life is starting to get better?
But we live in a world that sometimes is unfair. We live in a world of war, sickness, and even in this college we have rumors, misogyny, rotten food, and a parking pass shortage. I guess if I just emailed my mailbox buddy it would make me feel like there is still some love around. And what if I was preventing the greatest love story from happening, or what if he was, for simply not remembering to check his mailbox? My hand hovers over the “send” button. Whatever, people contact each other over the school email all the time. On the Sunday after V-day, I go to my mailbox. The envelope is gone. I cringe but in a good way. Maybe there is still some love in this world.
