PROSE: Crossing Paths

Dear Thomas,

The journey starts, you with the tail end of a radio 4 podcast in your ears and me with my drunken confidence. An enigmatic man with a blazer fit for only a historian, entertains my rambling and then departs with a handshake.

Our paths were not a simple crossing, likened to the shoulders of strangers brushing on a high-street. It was a collision of ­­bewilderment, serendipity and my obnoxious personality after a few too many cocktails. I won’t admit that maybe it was more coincidence than anything otherworldly because it didn’t feel that way to me.

Your letter did find me well Thomas, but as a result, I’ve found myself terribly unsatisfied.

Here I am, a woman but grateful for your effort and ability to make fall in love with my own words once again. You talk about my work as if I am more than just a girl with a hobby, but an exclusive author who has written this exact story for you and only you.

However, your last name is to be discovered. So alas, I can’t write back like I want to and live out my whimsical desires. Maybe you already told me and I must interrogate drunk me for answers. Maybe you wanted to inspire this very occurrence. Or maybe this is purposeful and I need to accept you don’t want to be found.

You know where I am.

Yours faithfully,

The ‘charming’ girl on the train who has nothing but kind words for you,



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