The letter

She had written this letter a hundred times inside her brain, word for word, full stop for full stop, agonizing line after the other. She wrote it in the vestiges of her brain while waiting in line for bread, riding her father's horse-driven carriage or while simply praying inside a church; and that is why when later the pen met the paper, the ink seemed to flow out of the pointy pen magically and land on the paper as if each letter knew its exact place and each word fit perfectly inside the small parchment.
She had convinced herself that whatever torment that letter would cause her, it would be much more tolerable than the torture experienced without sending it. It seemed like a lie, a well-crafted lie, but one she needed to believe. It was a simple letter, with simple words, but when read, nothing was simple about it; between the complexities of what lies between the words and lines, the hope that is not relayed within the sentences, the anguish that was impossible to conceal, the melancholy that she had simply disguised in cynical comedy. It was all too much to bear, and every time she read the letter, she felt as if her heart was going to stop and all the feeling in her hands simply disappeared, to be replaced by an uncomfortable sensation of tiny pins and needles.
She wondered whether he would actually care, whether this letter would cause any ripple within the sea of his existence. She wanted him to be shocked, bewildered, sad and repentant, but she knew that he wasn't capable of such rivet emotions. People described him as one whose heart was made of stone and although he always said the same thing, she felt different, sensed different; he wasn't all that tough, she knew that deep within him lies feelings and thoughts unexplored and unacknowledged. It was all a lustrous show that she didn't fall for, but yet, she wondered whether his heart could ever beat for her, whether these feelings could ever be released just for her. She didn't want to change him and accepted him for all his flaws, but she just couldn't accept her own ones, her own weakness, her own misfortune...

She read the letter one last time, convincing herself that she was waiting for the ink to dry, when it has dried for a long time now, longer than she cared to admit or wanted to admit. Her hands shook as she carefully folded the letter and each fold seemed to cause a dent in her heart. She reached for a yellow-colored envelope and as she lifted the letter to put it inside, her hands collapsed and her whole body started to shake like a leaf. She slammed both her hands on the wooden desk and took a deep breath, she reached for the letter, put it swiftly inside the envelope and closed the leaflet of the envelope. She reached for the red candle burning beside her and gently tilted it so that the hot wax could fall smoothly on the envelope, and with every drop of hot wax, a tear fell from her eyes, the wax took its place on the edges of the envelope's leaflet; making a sound that to her seemed horrendous, while her tears landed on the ground in silence.She took her father's stamp and stamped the hot wax to indicate the crescent of her famous family.

The letter was ready, it has always been ready within her mind, but now it's materialistic and real.She grabbed it and gave it to the maid, who in turn gave it to their household's messenger, who in turn gave it to that for whom her heart beats, but her mind distances.

It was the end(although she wished for a beginning)...