Let me set the scene:
I’m standing in front of the Doritos like a normal person.
I am not a normal person.
I am holding a letter that tastes like smoke.
I’m about to slide it between Sweet Chili Heat and Cool Ranch.
Because that’s where it belongs.
Three pages of restrained grief, betrayal under glass.
It doesn’t name names.
It doesn’t have to.
If you’ve ever swallowed your voice to make someone else more comfortable,
you’ll recognize it by the burn.
So.
If you find this letter wedged behind the Doritos,
take it.
Or don’t.
But know this:
She made it out.
And she left this for the next person who’s still choking on smoke.
Filed in ash and silence by the ghost at the counter.
She hasn’t introduced herself. Not yet.
Little Ghost Post 