Some day this will come true.

She doesn’t have a mailing address because she never receives mail. Not unless it were from a government agency, bank, or some sort of institution. This time it was different. She knew before she even touched it. It was a soft, silvery hue of pink. The surface smooth and undented, unscratched. She placed the tip of her finger on the envelope. A lump started to form in her throat. She knew what it was without knowing. She just knew.

Her light fingers lifted up the envelope into her palm. A waft of powdery scent greets her nose. It’s a soft hint of a scent, but it suffocates her. She looks at the name carefully printed on the outside of the envelope. It’s hers. She checks again just to make sure. She takes one deep, shaky breath. She touches the seal behind the envelope. Light fingernails slip under the seal, running smoothly along the length of it. She touches the broken seal. She takes another deep breath. The powdery scent greets her nostrils and she stops.

She touches the edge of what is inside. The color matches the envelope. The lump in her throat doubles in size. She turns the envelope to its side and slips her finger in. Almost afraid to touch what is inside. She gently pulls it out. She sees the map. She recognizes it without looking at it. She knows. She knows without knowing. She touches the embossed edges, running her fingers lightly on it. As if afraid to leave a mark. As if not touching it makes it less real somehow. She breathes in the powdery scent once more.

She turns it over; her eyes dead, but her heart on rapid fire. Her chest pounding so hard it would crush steel. She touches the embossing once again. Her mind forces her to look at the corners, but her eyes tears away. Just one more second. Just one more before it becomes real. Please, just one more. Her head drops, her chin almost touching her chest. She fingers the embossing again. She looks at the corners where the names are. She looks one more time just to be sure. She looks at the generic lettering that accompanies those names. She looks at the customary long line of dots where her name was supposed to be.

It felt like a gush of ice cold water. Her name belonged on the dotted lines. Not in the corners. Those dotted lines meant for the other nameless, faceless, starving souls that were to come. Her name wasn’t there. She was nameless, faceless, starving, in his eyes.

It is your courtesy to let me know.

It is my courtesy not to go.

I write one last note, leave it in my glass bottle.

It is for me to write, not for you to find.

I set it free where we used to laugh together.

I set free what I’ve kept hidden.

It will always be there, in my glass bottle.