The Address Between Us

Last night, I dreamed there was a letter waiting for you.

Not from me.

At least, that is what I kept telling myself.

I only had to deliver it.

The address was familiar in the way an old scar is familiar—you recognize it before you remember how you got it.

Same street.

Same entrance.

Same doorbell.

But the number on the door was missing.

I stood there for a long time, holding the envelope against my chest.

No return address.

No sender.

Only your name.

Or what I believed was your name.

Inside the building, the lights were on.

Someone was awake.

I pressed the doorbell.

Nothing.

I pressed it again.

Still nothing.

Perhaps the bell had stopped working.

Perhaps I had forgotten how to use it.

A concierge sat behind the desk, speaking quietly into a telephone. When he looked at me, he smiled as though he knew exactly why I was there.

He pointed toward the mailboxes.

There were sixteen.

I counted them twice.

Then I forgot the number.

I searched for yours.

There was no apartment number.

Only empty spaces where numbers should have been.

I asked the concierge with my hands.

He answered with his.

We understood each other without saying anything.

Perhaps that was the problem.

There are things two people can understand without ever saying them.

I opened one mailbox.

Empty.

Another.

Empty.

Another.

A building notice.

A forgotten receipt.

A key that opened nothing.

Then, in the last compartment, I found a small space just large enough for the envelope.

I almost put it inside.

Almost.

But I suddenly wondered what was written on it.

I turned the envelope over.

Nothing.

No handwriting.

No stamp.

No seal.

Nothing that could tell me where it came from.

I imagined different things.

A button that could undo the past.

A warning that would give me seven seconds to make the right decision.

A small bottle of hand cream for hands that had forgotten warmth.

But perhaps it contained nothing at all.

Perhaps the envelope itself was the message.

I looked toward the apartment upstairs.

The light was still on.

For a moment, I thought I saw someone standing behind the curtain.

I didn't wave.

I didn't call your name.

I simply stood there, holding the letter I was never supposed to open.

Then I understood.

Some letters are not meant to be delivered.

Some addresses remain long after the people who lived there have left.

And some spaces are kept empty

because filling them

would mean admitting

who is missing.