Letters

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Twelve years ago, when I was walking home from school with a girl who had been one of my closest friends since primary school, she handed me two letters.

“What are these?” I asked.

She just laughed and said, “Just read them tomorrow or something.”

For a second, I wondered, Could these be love letters?

I slipped them into my pocket, said goodbye to her, and went to the arcade. After that, I stopped by a convenience store and headed for the station, but the trains weren’t running. 

Since I had no other choice, I walked home, which took about an hour.

When I got home, I couldn’t stop thinking about the letters, so I decided to read them ahead of time instead of waiting until the next day. But when I reached into my pocket, they were gone.

I’d lost them.

I thought about going back to look for them, but it felt like too much trouble.  

I figured I’d just apologize to her the next day and went to bed.

In the middle of the night, my parents woke me up.

They told me that after we had parted ways, my friend had fallen from the train platform and been struck by a train. 

She died instantly.

I couldn’t sleep at all that night.

The next day I skipped school and searched everywhere I’d been, but I never found the letters.

The police ruled it an accident. 

I never told anyone about the letters, partly because I’d lost them.

Even now, I sometimes lie awake at night wondering if those letters were actually her suicide notes.