Letter to Laura George

Laura

The diner was quiet. Too quiet.

The only light came from the dim glow of the kitchen gas, flickering like it could go out at any moment. The usual buzz of life was gone, the air thick with an unnatural stillness.

I sighed and turned the gas off.

"Hey, Peter. I'm clocking out now," I called over my shoulder, untying my apron.

No response.

I frowned. He had just walked into the pantry a few seconds ago.

"Peter?" I called again, but the silence stretched.

A prickle of unease crawled down my spine as I walked toward the pantry. Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, my breath catching in my throat as my heart slammed against my ribs.

I froze.

Peter was sprawled on the floor, lifeless eyes staring straight ahead, blood pooling around him.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

My limbs felt heavy, my mind blank but then, the dam broke.

"Peter!"

I dropped to my knees, my hands trembling as I reached out to his face. His skin was pale, unmoving. The thick scent of iron filled my nostrils, and I whimpered, lowering my head to his chest, straining to hear something, anything.

Nothing.

"No," I whispered, stumbling back, my entire body shaking.

Tears blurred my vision as I scrambled for my phone, fingers fumbling to dial for help but as I raised the device to my ear, something odd struck me.

The smell.

I sniffled, lowering my phone, and bringing my hand closer to my nose, it didn't smell like blood.

It smelled like Ketchup.

What the hell?

My heart still hammering, I wiped my tears and rushed back to the pantry, my legs wobbly.

Peter was... on his feet.

I stopped dead in my tracks, staring at him like he had just risen from the grave.

"Hey, Laura," he greeted casually, as if he hadn't just been lying in a puddle of fake blood.

My eyes swept over him, from head to toe, my body still in fight-or-flight mode.

"What... the fuck?"

He stood there, unmoving, until a grin split his face. Then he burst out laughing—a loud, hysterical laugh that sent a fresh wave of shock through me.

"What the hell just happened?" I demanded, my voice sharp with anger and confusion. "What kind of sick joke is this?"

Peter took a step toward me, still chuckling, but I stepped back, putting space between us.

"You should've seen your face," he wheezed, barely able to get the words out.

I shook my head, trying to process the last sixty seconds. "You were dead just now, Peter! How the hell are you standing?"

He smirked. "It was barbecue sauce. Mixed with ketchup."

I blinked. "What?"

"The blood. It wasn't real."

I stared at him, my jaw tightening. "You faked your death?"

He shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. "I was bored. No customers, no action. Thought I'd liven things up."

Except you played dead, you absolute lunatic.

"And you thought that would be fun?" I snapped, my hands clenching at my sides.

"Laura, come on. Look at me. I'm dying from laughter." He let out another bark of laughter, doubling over.

My patience snapped.

"You're an asshole, Peter. A lunatic. This is why no one wants to talk to you, hang out with you, or even work the late-night shift with you. Because you're a weirdo!" The words spilled out before I could stop them.

His laughter stopped instantly.

The amusement drained from his face as he stared at the floor. Without a word, he turned away and grabbed a mop, silently cleaning up his mess.

A sharp gust of wind blew through the diner as the front door swung open.

"Hello," a voice called out. "I'd like a box of pizza. No pepperoni, light on the cheese."

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temples. Fucking fantastic.

****

Later that night, as I made my way to the kitchen to fix myself a cup of tea, something slid under the door.

An envelope.

I frowned, bending down to pick it up. It was thick, and expensive to the touch, and the ink on the front was bold and precise.

Letter to Laura George.

My name.

A strange feeling curled in my stomach as I unlocked the door and peeked outside. The hallway was empty. No footsteps. No lingering presence.

I tilted my head. Was this even for me?

Without much thought, I took the envelope upstairs, hopping up the steps two at a time until I reached my bedroom. I threw myself onto the bed and held up the letter.

"Alright, let's see what we've got here, Laura George," I muttered to myself, managing a crooked smile but as my eyes skimmed the first line, my entire body tensed.

"With the memories of that night still lingering in my head, I write to you..."

My grip tightened.

"That night? What night?”

I cleared my throat. "Uh... excuse me?" I muttered to no one in particular, before continuing.

“With the memories of that night still lingering in my head, I write to you about how impactful our encounter has been on me—positively, I should add.

You were like a dandelion in the midst of daisies. Among so many beautiful women, you stood out. Your presence struck me like lightning, making my tux feel as hot and suffocating as my bowtie.

Must I also commend your dress? The way its straps clung to your shoulders, how the colour illuminated your skin? But this is not flattery. These words are the truth, written from the depths of my heart to the woman reading this letter.

Another thought that refuses to leave my mind is the way your eyes glittered, the softness of your smile. The way your voice slid through your throat and spilled from your lips—effortless, captivating.

I wonder if that night holds any meaning for you the way it does for me. Perhaps it is foolish of me to hope, but still, I do."

I stopped reading, my mind spinning.

This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

"This is most definitely not meant for me."

I racked my brain, trying to recall the last time I had gone on a date or met a man who could be this smitten.

Nothing.

Unless, of course, we were counting that one time I got locked in the science lab with my lab partner.

Which... no.

I flipped the envelope over, hoping for a clue. A name. A return address. Anything.

Nothing.

Just my name. Letter to Laura George.

"But this is my name..."

I was baffled. Completely lost.

Still, I resumed reading, despite the nagging feeling that I was intruding on something meant for someone else.

“You may wonder why I am writing this to you. I have asked myself the same question.

Perhaps this was foolish, but this was the only means of communication I could think of since you gave me only your name. We met once, and it was brief, but I cannot shake the feeling that this was something rare. Something real.

I have tried to silence my thoughts, but my heart insists this is love at first sight.

However, I leave the choice to you. You may ignore my heart, or you may do me the honor of contacting me through my number: +1 (573) 222-3322.

I hope to hear from you soon... or whenever you feel so inclined.

Yours."

I let the letter slip from my fingers and stared blankly at the ceiling.

"I wish it was for me," I whispered to myself.

I wished someone had written those words about me.

A strange, lonely ache settled in my chest, but I quickly shoved it down.

"Whatever," I muttered. "I'll just tell him he got the wrong Laura George and go back to my perfectly uneventful, lonely life."