Romance

by Scribe Leaf Library · 1 min read · 0 views

The postcard was postmarked ten years before it arrived, lost somewhere in a sorting facility until a renovation crew found it wedged behind a conveyor belt and, with nothing better to do with it, simply mailed it on. It read: "Wish you were here. Thinking I might actually tell you when I get back. — J." No last name, no return address, addressed to a woman who had moved twice since, and who opened it standing in her new kitchen with no idea who J. was until, three lines in, she remembered a summer, a man named Jonah, and a flight home she'd taken without knowing he'd almost said something at the airport. She found him eventually — married now, two kids, entirely unaware a decade-late postcard existed. She never told him. She kept it anyway, in a drawer, not as regret but as evidence that somebody, once, had almost said the thing, and that the almost still counted for something.