tell me a story of someone who really truly wants another person back:
it’s going to be about guy and a girl. it’s been months, maybe even more than a full year. and the girl wakes up and she gets dressed and she’s gone about her day, running errands, whatnot. and when she gets back it’s the early evening and mail’s come in and there’s a couple of bills and a letter from a friend of hers, a postcard and a small brown box. she thinks it’s curious, she usually knows when to expect boxes; they’re usually something she’s ordered and is excited about, anticipating, impatient for for days or weeks. she loves opening boxes and usually does that first apart from the rest of the mail. this day is no exception except of course that she hasn’t been anticipating this box. so she doesn’t even go inside, she stands on the porch and she begins to open the box, but she needs a knife she quickly realizes so she opens the front door and walks to the kitchen and gets a knife from the block on the counter and begins cutting through the tape that’s bent and stretched from her pulling but wouldn’t give. she cuts through and pulls the flaps open. there’s another box inside. she pulls it out. it’s a box of tea. it’s not a brand she’s heard of before. it’s called Especial-Tea For You. it’s just a brown box and the name of it is handwritten and it’s missing all nutritional facts. she sits down at her kitchen table and opens it up and takes a bag out, her finger grazing the string to the paper tab which also has something written on it:
agilit-tea — that time we played twister at richard’s house-warming.
her eyebrows knit closer together. she picked out another one:
dependabili-tea — a trait that i should have exhibited, so much better.
her lips parted. she picked out another one:
hypersensitivi-tea — you have never ever ever been that way; i cringe thinking how i said you were.
and she picked out another and another and another:
immovabili-tea — that’s me, for you.
brevi-tea — i am so sorry.
fertili-tea — i still believe we could make the most healthy, loved, well-reared babies.
until there was only one left. the others were in an untidy heap outside of the box. her right hand, holding the final one up, was trembling. her left hand, over her mouth, was wet with tears. she read the last tea bag’s tab:
honest-tea — i was very wrong. i have missed you. i am so sorry. i promise, this is not an empty gesture.

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