Work Text:
Alexis Ness walked into the bookstore, quickly grabbing the latest version of the magazine displayed prominently on the shelf. As soon as he paid, the high school boy couldn't wait to rush home to enjoy it.
The magazine usually came with a few small, common accessories as a gift for readers. This latest version included a pack of tissues with a rose pattern. Ness quickly set it aside, flipping through to find the most popular section that made this magazine so famous and sold out on its first day of release.
It was because the magazine contained a summary, interview, and the latest spin-off story by Vivien Hugo, famous for his love letters featured in the magazine's confession section. Last year, Hugo published his first novel, "Fifteen Years Waiting for a Reply," about his fifteen-year wait for love.
Ness scrolled to the section where Hugo briefly mentioned his first work, along with some personal reflections. The young boy's eyes sparkled like an autumn lake disturbed by children throwing stones at it, creating ripples on the surface, stirring up tears that threatened to overflow. Unable to contain his emotions, a single tear rolled down Ness’s cheek and onto the page, soaking it without smudging the words:
"First, I would like to send my greetings to all my readers who have supported me over the years. Thank you all so much for your support. Originally, I only wanted to express my feelings through poetry to a young man named Loki whom I loved passionately when I was young. I wrote and sent him letters regularly for fifteen years without receiving a single reply.
You might wonder why I didn't text him, right? From the time we met until we were together, technology wasn't developed yet. The only place with a phone was in the military base. So he answered the call of his country and went to defend it.
In the first year, I wrote a letter every day, licking stamps non-stop, sending many letters hoping he would read a part of my love. But I don't know if it was because he was on so many different missions that the addresses were wrong, but all the letters were returned. So I put the whole stack of letters in a tin box and hid it in his room.
In the second year, there was an electrical short circuit in my house, causing it to catch fire. To be honest, I was a bit reckless then. Even though my hair caught fire, I still clung to the tin box and ran outside. By the time I got out, half of my face was burnt
In my third year, I was more prepared and calmer; after all, a letter a day was draining my poetic reservoir. I started posting my diary and love letters on a paid website, initially just for fun, thinking no one would read it. Unexpectedly, thanks to everyone's love and support, the story's sales exceeded my target. I have to thank everyone again.
In my fourth year, I tried submitting an article to the France magazine, and unexpectedly, I learned a new language to express my feelings to him. Oh, I forgot to mention, I think everyone will wonder why I didn't receive any replies but still kept writing to him? Because in my quiet life, there were only two days that I genuinely felt happy: the first was the day I met him, and the second was my birthday. Back then, I was like a child eagerly anticipating my birthday—sounds rather childish, doesn't it? It was simply because someone would send me a box of sweet honey date candies. During those years, I was a teacher for the children in the village; having food was already a blessing, let alone candy.
In my fifth year, I became a famous writer. Perhaps my poems touched the hearts of many, especially young women? I hope they can touch the heart of the man named Julian Loki in my memories.
In the sixth year, my body deteriorated, I suffered from all sorts of minor illnesses, there wasn't a single bone that hadn't been broken, not a single internal organ that hadn't been damaged, only my heart, despite the pain, continued to beat incessantly, and I wrote more than two thousand poems for him, my destiny.
In my seventh year, my hair from the burnt spot had grown back, and I felt like I was reaching my peak. So I started learning metaphors, comparing Loki to everything surrounding me to satisfy my yearning. For example, I compared Loki's eyes to a sunset—both brilliant and profound; to the wind that always ruffled my hair in the summer; to any stranger on the street—would anyone resemble him? Sadly, no matter how similar they were, none were my destiny, my Loki.
In my eighth year, I still received honey dates. I saved up enough money, happily slammed my resignation letter on the table, and walked away without looking back at the boss who kept yelling at me.
However, the good times didn't last long. In my ninth year, I had a car accident. According to the doctor and nurses, I suffered a brain injury from hitting my head too hard. I couldn't even remember where I lived, but strangely, I remembered that I had once loved him.
After spending almost a year in the hospital, the tenth and eleventh years I spent entirely reminiscing about the past. Even though my heart felt like it was being squeezed, my head buzzed as if nails were being hammered in, I still couldn't remember his face.
They say the first step to forgetting someone is to gradually forget their voice, their appearance, their hobbies and personal details, and then the name of the person you once loved. So, to avoid forgetting him, I tattooed his name on the ring finger of my left hand, because his name was originally the owner of that finger.
Spring, summer, autumn, and winter passed by, yet I never stopped loving him. Each day was suffocating and meaningless.
In the fifteenth spring, I remembered everything while cleaning the house; all the love I had for him was neatly stored in the room where he used to live. I'm so grateful that I still have this love.
Oh, and a little side story: that winter, I received a reply!
"It's a death notice. It turns out my beloved Loki died long ago, his whereabouts unknown. Now his remains have been found and handed over to me for handling. This series will end here. No matter what, I will still wait for his replies. Thank you for your support all this time."
For some reason, reading this epilogue made Ness's heart ache, a dull ache, and tears welled up without him realizing it. He used a tissue scented with rose petals to wipe away his tears, then unfolded the neatly folded tissue.
Ness takes out his phone, his long slim fingers slowly clicking on the contact name “Michael” on the screen, pressing the call button.
“Alexis?”
“Michael, you won’t believe it–”