“I’m so tired,” Elizabeth muttered after putting her bags away and sunk into the comfort of her old battered sofa without a care of her manner.
Wishing for a moment of silence in her mind and body, she was distracted by the sound of water droplets splattered onto the sink in her kitchen. She could not move her legs to stand up and shut it off properly. Not even the thought of every droplet of water would waste her money away motivate her to move.
Slowly releasing a breath she held for a short moment, she turned her head away from her old small box of entertainment to search for a remote control. The useless thing was far off from her right side that required her to stand up and walk to fetch it. Elizabeth scrunched her nose, imagined one hundred and one ways to murder the damn thing.
She took her time to stand up from her sofa, walked a few steps and bent to get a good grip on the remote control; resulting a pained back as she had not properly stretched her body first before and after sinking low for comfort on her sofa. Elizabeth swore.
She sank back to her comfort zone and turned on the television. A song blared out. She stared at the colourful screen. Her eyes fixed only onto one target.
She stood up again and slowly made her way to her bedroom. On her dressing table, there was a stack of decorative writing papers waiting for her. Her bottled ink and beautiful fountain pen were placed neatly beside it.
Hypnotised by the song, Volcano blared out from her television, she sat down and began to plan on what she should write for the next letter to him.
“I should,” she effused, “write how much I still love him!”
“Hey, Tris!” Brad intoned, trying his best to annoy Tristan with his childish voice and used the short girlish nickname created with love – or so the rest of the members agreed upon – for him.
Tristan scowled. He was tired after the day the tour finally finished and wished to get at least a short moment of peace without his mates.
Brad grinned. “There’s another love letter for you.” He put his hand up, showing the familiar envelope.
Tristan groaned. “Again?”
His best mate shrugged and slapped the envelope onto his chest. “Well, you know how we–” he purposely dragged the word out, “love letters from stalkers.”
“Shut up, mate,” Tristan grumbled back. Without further ado, he ripped the envelope open – none too gently – and read it. Just like the previous other letters the girl sent to him, it always started with:
I’m your biggest fan.”