Short Story: The Yellow Envelope

He walked around his bedroom, cleaning the rug like he always did on Sundays. But as he shifted the bed, a brittle crackling sound cut through the silence.

Curious, he bent down and found a crushed yellow envelope hidden between the bed and the backrest. It must’ve once been tucked under a pillow — a secret kept close — but must have slipped out, demanding to be seen.

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed it and moved to the nearest table. The paper inside was brittle, yellowed with time, and heavy with memory.

A deep spark of regret ran up his spine. He sat down slowly, grounding himself as if bracing for a long-forgotten impact.

His hands moved slower than expected, while his chest rose and fell harder than he wanted.

His mind screamed: What’s inside?

But his body slowed him, as if it already knew the truth would leave him changed.

He tried to read from the top, but his eyes darted to the bottom — looking for a name, a clue.

He saw the signature.

And instantly, everything inside him stilled.

His chest felt both calm and crushed. His heart, no longer racing, now simply ached.

Dear Brankley,

Writing this with a mushy heart.

I told you how much I like you today, but I couldn’t say it all.

So here I am — giving myself permission to feel out loud.

You are my best friend. The kind people pray for. But somewhere between all the conversations, the laughter, and the quiet moments, I fell in love with you.

Maybe it was always there.

Maybe from the first time I saw you.

I’ve had sleepless nights imagining what it would feel like to be with you — not as a friend, but as something more.

Maybe now those dreams can begin.

And if not… I’ll still be grateful that I dared to tell you.

With lots of courage,

Emi

Brankley stared at the paper, silent. His breath slowed, his heart settled.

No expression crossed his face, but his eyes pleaded with him to react — to do something.

His brain whispered feel something, but his body stayed still.

All he could do was stare at the fragile paper, its messy handwriting shaking like a confession written in a storm. It looked like someone had taken hours to write every word but ended up spilling the entire truth in seconds.

He closed his eyes and took a long breath.

A tear escaped before he could stop it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m so sorry.”

His eyes drifted to the fireplace, where Emi smiled from behind a photo frame — forever young, forever distant.

Brankley wanted to smile back.

But he couldn’t.

The guilt held his face hostage.

All he wanted now was to punish himself.

To make up for the years he didn’t know.

Or didn’t dare to know.

He pressed the paper gently between his palms, flattening the wrinkles, trying to smooth time itself — as if he could undo the 20 years it took to read these words.

He walked around his bedroom again, slower this time. The rug still needed cleaning. The bed still needed shifting. But something in the room had changed like time itself had exhaled.

This Sunday, he choose not to clean.

He let the dust settle, both in the room and in his heart.