Second Chance with My Secret Lover Complete Short Drama

Sitting with her legs folded cross-legged against the cold floor, Camille was catching the dim light from the bedside lamp; it was the weight of a date, July 9th, pressing against her breasts. Actually, it is this day. Time hasn't really changed a lot for her. She could bury herself in all kinds of distractions, but it always happened. And with it comes that very familiar ache she's learned to embrace.

Slowly, her fingers would trace the worn-out edges of an old shoebox lying under her bed. Inside, they would lay nineteen letters-all sealed, all not sent. And now, she was about to add another sher.

A blank sheet of paper was pulled from the pack, smoothed over her lap, and picked up by her pen.

Dear Adrian,

How has life been treating you? Would you still recognize me today? It has been seven years, yet here I find myself writing to you as if you were just away on some long trip and that one day you would come home and read it all and laugh at how dramatic I was. But you don't, do you?

This, as you would have guessed, is my twentieth letter. I think you should feel really special now. Not even my diary gets this attention.

I wonder if you ever think about me. If you ever stop and hear a song and remember the way we used to drive around at night, our hands hanging out the window, pretending we were flying. Do you remember the last time we did that? We talked about leaving this town, about chasing something bigger than ourselves. I believed we would, but you left first. And you left me behind.

I still don't know why.

I spent the first few years thinking I must have missed something! Some sign, some unspoken goodbye hidden in your eyes-but there was nothing. Just silence. You know how cruel that is, Adrian? To disappear without a single word?

But I won't be cruel back. I will not say I hate you because that would be a lie.

The truth: I miss you.

I miss the way you used to laugh, the way you could tell when something was very wrong with me without me saying a word. I miss how you saw me when there was nobody else who did.

I can't tell where you are or what kind of life you live now-perhaps you have a world that's entirely different from mine. Yet I write.

Maybe because part of me still hopes.

Hope is such a dumb thing, is it not?

Ever yours,

Camille

She dropped the pen and took a shaking breath. She shouldn't be doing this anymore. Writing to a corpse. But Adrian could never leave her, could he? It was more of a haunting presence in the silence between breaths and quiet moments when the world slowed down enough for the memories to creep in.

As she was about to fold the letter, a loud clap of thunder broke across the night, rattling the windows. Jerked to guilty surprise, Camille's pulse skipped a beat as she turned to the window. Outside, it looked like the sky had darkened with heavy clouds swirling and rain was beginning to fall in sheets against the glass.

A storm.

How typical.

Camille left the breath she had been holding out and leaned back on the bed, the letter still open in her hands. The small lamp that illuminated her small apartment flickered and cast shadows on its walls.