Letter Five – The Easy Day
I don't have any pictures of you, and you don't have any of me.
That day we spent together at the zoo—neither of us took our phones out, not even once. I was surprised when you asked to spend the day together after we finally saw each other again the following summer.
I had no idea where to go. Zero.
And so I suggested, “How about the zoo?”
You agreed.
It was a brutally hot summer day.
You regretted wearing jeans, while I was wearing a sleeveless top.
Still, we wandered through the zoo, sweating and laughing, making silly comments about the animals.
I remember that despite the heat and humidity, we held hands and stuck to each other like teenage lovers.
Toward the end of the afternoon, somewhere near the bird cages, you leaned back against a wooden railing, and I stood in front of you—actually, I leaned into you, and you wrapped your arms around me.
You brushed my hair aside, or maybe touched my arm—my memory is soft around the edges—but I remember how close we were.
Your face was right next to my ear. I could feel your breath on my skin.
There was a sprinkler system nearby, misting the air with tiny drops of water.
It cooled us just enough to stay where we were.
Why did we stay like that for so long—cuddling in the open, in the middle of the zoo? I don't know. But we did.
It was humid and sweaty and completely unbothered. I was happy.
We only had two daytime outings that summer: the zoo, and the time we went skating.
I bruised my knee pretty badly, but it was fun.
I remember you tried to pull me back up when I fell, and then you fell backward, too—and we both ended up on the ground, with me in your arms. We laughed at our clumsiness.
After skating, as we were leaving, we passed a coffee stand. You asked if I wanted coffee. I said no, because I didn't feel like having coffee at that moment.
Now, looking back, I wish I had said yes—so we could have stayed outside a little longer, before heading back to our reality.
But still, that felt like enough. Like something whole and self-contained.
In the first letter, I told you I'd always thought that you had a good-looking face—but that wasn't what stood out to me.
It wasn't until that summer, that I realized just how handsome you really were.
And more than that—how charismatic.
I wouldn't have known, until I saw how other people reacted to you.
The cashiers in the convenience store, the waitresses and even the waiters in the restaurant—they paused mid-sentence to say, "You're really handsome," before returning to whatever they were doing.
When you asked for directions, or had casual interactions with girls, they'd blush. Giggling. Fidgeting. You didn't seem surprised at all. But I was.
Looking back, I wonder if that's why I caught your attention in the beginning—because I didn't react that way. I wasn't dazzled by your looks.
I was a little odd. I'd get distracted by the TV playing in the corner, or by other people in the room. I didn't focus on you exclusively.
And now I understand—after seeing how others responded to you—that my answer, when you first asked if you'd see me again, must have been unusual.
You said it yourself: no girl had ever replied to you like that before.
Note: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
