Dear Evie,

My stomach was filled with rocks. I could hardly walk up the steps towards your flat. But somehow my heart found the strength to ring your doorbell. I waited. My brain told me all of this waiting...it wasn't good. But my heart told me to keep hoping. To stay still. I listened to my heart.

I walked to the coffee shop at the end of your street and I sat. I waited. An hour later, I knocked on your door once more. Except this time, the door was opened. Unfortunately for me, the woman at the door wasn't you. She had dark skin and brown eyes. She didn't look like you, but the confused smile on her lips, it sort of reminded me of you.

"Evie?" I asked. "Do you know Evie?"

"No. I've lived here for the last six months," the woman said. She asked me if I could autograph something for her youngest daughter and, she handed me some photographs for me to sign.

I left.

I called Brian and told him to book me a hotel room. I hadn't done it because I didn't think there was any need to book a room. I thought...I don't know. I wasn't sure what I was thinking. That you'd take me back once you saw me?

I waited until I was inside my room before exploding. I threw everything in my line of sight at the wall. Six months. You hadn't lived there in six months. My letters, Evie. I asked the woman about my letters and she said she had been sending them back.

I hardly open my mail. But somewhere in my flat, or in the trash, are the letters I've sent you. Unread. Gathering dust.

I feel so stupid, Evie. I feel so stupid I didn't listen when you said you weren't going back. But if you weren't returning to your favorite city in the world, San Francisco, then who's to say you would take me back?

Oh, bloody hell. I played myself.

x

I'm back in London. I found the letters and handed them to Freda and told her to open up the envelopes, take the letters out and send them to a new address. I don't know if you are living in Arizona but that was the last place I was able to reach out to you.

Here's to hoping and waiting some more, to your mother giving you the letters and not opening the letters. Especially not the fifth. Goodness, not the fifth letter.

On second thought, I'm adding an extra page in the beginning stating she should absolutely not read that letter.

No one wants to know how their daughter lost their virginity.

Not giving up,
John