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Pausing to flick the switch on the kettle, Lucy dropped her tote bag on the kitchen table. Two books immediately spilled out with a thud.

“You been buying more books?” her flatmate yelled from the living room.

“Maybe,” she replied as she grabbed two mugs from the draining board. “Coffee?”

“Tea please. I bought donuts when I was out. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy adding a teabag to one mug and a spoon of coffee to the other.

Carrying her bag and coffee with a donut balanced on a plate on top of the mug, Lucy headed into her bedroom to read. She loved sharing a flat with Becca but there was only so many hours of crap TV that she could sit through in the living room. Soaps and reality TV shows were not her thing. She set the mug and plate down on her bedside table then lifted the books out of her bag. Books had been her passion ever since she had been a little girl. Even though she had a Kindle that went everywhere with her, Lucy loved a real book, especially a pre-owned book. Her imagination ran riot as she daydreamed about who might have owned the book before her. Had they loved it or hated it?  Had it been a been a gift or had they treated themselves to it? Had they read it somewhere exotic? If they’d loved it, why had they given it away? She hated parting with books. Her latest haul had been purchased at the newly opened second-hand bookshop next door to the florist’s where she worked.

Today when she had gone in on her way home from work, she had promised herself that she would only buy one. Four books now sat on her bed. Three of them looked practically new; the fourth looked to have been well-loved. It was a large sized paperback by one of her favourite historical fiction authors. Deciding to read it first, Lucy picked it up then settled down on the bed, wriggling herself into a comfy position among her many pillows.

As she opened the book, a folded sheet of paper fell out from between the middle pages. Closing the book, she picked it up. When she unfolded it, Lucy discovered that it was in fact three sheets of very lightweight paper, almost like tissue paper.

It was a letter.

Marvelling at the neat cursive handwriting, Lucy began to read.

Hi,

I’ll write this and hopefully find the courage to actually send it to you. Maybe this letter will be different to all the others. Who knows…  I keep them all.

Wish you had had time to stop the other day, but I get it. Life’s busy.

Life’s lonely too. I miss seeing you every day. Miss our working lunches. Not that we ever did much work. We took so much for granted then.

It’s been difficult being off. I miss working. Miss having a sense of purpose. All the hospital appointments, scans and blood tests – they’re exhausting. I want my old life back, but I know that I need to come to terms with the fact that it’s gone forever. I’ll be gone too soon.

They’ve not told me how much time I have. I can feel myself that things are changing and getting worse. It’s taking more and more painkillers to get through each day.

Not sure how much longer I’ll be able to be out and about on my own. Losing my independence is a bitter pill to swallow. I’ll push myself for as long as I can.

My counsellor is encouraging me to say all the things that I have to say to the people I care about. She’s telling me to write it down if I can’t say it in person. So I guess that’s what I’m trying to do here. This isn’t my first attempt at this…more like the tenth or twelfth.

I’ve been recording videos for the kids as well as writing letters and cards for them to be opened on special occasions. Planned and organised to the last. I’ve no idea if they’ll even look at them but I’m making them each a memory box. A past present and future memory box.

I wish I could make one for you but that might not be fair on you. I mean where would you keep it and when would you be able to look at it? It’s too risky but please know that the thought’s there.

Oh this is starting to feel too serious!

I try not to ask much of my family and friends. Too independent and stubborn for my own good, I know. I am going to ask one thing. I want you to read a poem at my funeral. You know the one. Will you do that for me please? I’ve left written instructions sealed in an envelope – songs to be played and that kind of thing. I’ve said in there that I want you to do a reading. Hope that’s not too much to ask.

If you find a minute to drop by it would be great to see you. I’m usually home alone for a few hours on Wednesdays after dinner although I’m not sure how many Wednesdays I’ll have left. Apart from then, there’s always someone here. It can get quite claustrophobic to be honest. They mean well.

If you can’t I understand.

And one final thing before I chicken out. Something I’ve never felt brave enough to say to your face but something I hope you already know. I love you with all my heart. I know it’s wrong, but I do. I think a part of me has always loved you, ever since I first caught sight of you all those years ago. Feels like a lifetime ago that we met. Feels like we’ve known each other through many lifetimes.

I love you now and forever

X

Tears filled Lucy’s eyes as she refolded the sheets and slipped them into the front of the book.

Who had written that beautiful heart breaking love letter? When had they written it? Who were they writing it to? A lover? Did it actually get sent? Was that declaration of love left hidden and unread in the pages of the book? Was the love returned?

Hoping to find another letter or a clue, Lucy flicked through the book. Nothing. She flicked through the pages for a second time. A flash of yellow caught her eye, It was a Post It note stuck to a page at the end of a chapter.

The writing on the Post It was different. Messier. More masculine perhaps. All it said was “I love you more.”

Lucy smiled.