I met Peyton Presely when I was nine years old. He started as a rumor. While all of the other children roamed the streets freely, playing with one another under the guidance of a shared community, Peyton was a lonely boy who lived in an enormous manor on the outskirts of town. He was rarely seen and thus earned the gossip of our young minds, dominating our short attention spans. Some people claimed he was a ghost, and that’s why he couldn't leave the manor or play with the other children. Others claimed it was due to a rare skin condition that made him sensitive to sunlight. 

I was so intrigued by the rumors that I actually made the trek up to the manor myself.  I snuck down the side of the manor and peered into one of the windows. Inside I could see a boy my age sitting at a daunting grand piano. Most of the children my age had big smiling faces; even when they cried, it was loud and dramatic. But the boy’s face was so simply solemn, so refined like many of the adults I knew. I had rasped on the glass to get his attention. Peyton had come up to the window anxiously and propped it open. 

“Do you wanna go somewhere fun?” I had whispered excitedly. 

I had a crush on Peyton Presely since I was ten years old. But I guess I’ve never really accepted that until now. I didn’t want to believe someone like me could be with someone like him. He was like the apple in the book of Genesis, tempting but forbidden. Both Felix and I had put our feelings into a box and locked them away, though mine had never been physical. Mine was hidden somewhere on the shelf of my ribcage next to my heart. 

He won’t talk to me anymore, but it's not like I try to engage much, either. Most of the time, I stay in Felix’s room, reading over the letters, trying to piece this all together. It’s all I can do, all I have left. Desperately, I am hoping that somehow by solving this mystery, I will solve all of the other problems in my life. 

Suddenly, I remember the last letter. I kneel down on the floor and scoop it up. Instead of gently unfolding the envelope, I rip it open. 

The last entry is from 2017, two years before he died. My fingers tremble a little with excitement. My eyes scan the page slowly, savoring every word:

“I am too late. I have let both our youths slip through my hands. I should have told you how I felt when we were young. I always believed I was unworthy of your affection and needed to grow as a man before I could take your hand. But I kept waiting, and I never became the man I dreamed of in my head. Would you have loved me if I had only given you myself, as I am?”

I stare at the letter. 

My heart plummets down into my stomach. No answers. No grand confession. Just a sad, heartbroken man. I squeeze the letter in my hand, crumpling the corners. I toss it to the ground and stomp on it. 

There must be more, there has to be more. 

I grab the hammer off the dresser and begin to pry up more and more of the floor. I rip up the wood, unbothered by the splinters piercing my fingers. I hear Peyton charging up the stairs and burst into the room, but still, I pry and pry. 

“What are you doing?” he roars. He grabs me by my arm and pulls me up off the floor. I don’t fight him. I let him drag me downstairs and push me into the car, swearing every few breaths. We drive in silence until we reach a small yellow house with white shingles. 

“Get out,” he spits. So I got out. 

The second my body leaves the vehicle, Peyton reverses loudly out of the driveway. I peer up at the yellow house and know what Peyton wants me to do. I walk down the beaten pebble path up to the door and knock. A bible verse hangs off a nail on the door, “Every good and perfect thing is from above. James 1:17”.

I peer up at the graying sky, begging for rain. If all good things come from above, then let them fall onto me, please; let the cold rain chill into my bones and tell me its ancient secrets. But after a moment, the rain does not come. I give the door three heavy knocks and wait. 

A woman answers the door. She has a small, frail body held up by spite. She’s wearing a loose, black tank top and sweatpants. Her pale face is engraved with wrinkles. Thin blue glitter is painted on both of her eyelids.

“Well…” she says, crossing her arms. “Welcome back.”

And I break. The instant I hear her voice, my throat closes, and my eyes burst with sadness. I fall to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. 

“Geez, Junior,” my mother cringes. “Come on, come on. I won’t leave you out in the cold.” 

She helps me up and leads me inside.