Envelopes

It was dark, save for the dim yellow bulb casting shadows. The blue sky outside was meaningless; to him, there was only darkness, heavy drapes drawn tightly. He fought tears as he cradled the crumpled stack of envelopes. Each, scrawled "return to sender" over the front. He rocked to and fro, sobbing. Each envelope, a memory. The first drink. The first kiss. Time together, as they traveled across the continent. A chance meeting on the train, he, a divorcee, she, on the rebound. And the romance of a cross country rail tour sparking their passion. Three months on, he'd written to her frequently, thinking her silence was just the the distance they covered across the oceans. Now, in his arms, stacks of unopened letters, shattered dreams. He was bitter for it, yet he couldn't have known. As a train ride started everything, a bus crash on the way back just ended it.