Elevator Love Letter
Stars

It must’ve begun on a Monday morning, though I didn’t make my discovery until Monday night. I was looking for something in my purse, a lipstick maybe, to touch up on my way home. What I found instead was a little orange envelope with my name, Ahn Hyejin, carefully crafted in rounded letters. The envelope was sealed with a sticker of a happy banana. I couldn’t tell you what compelled me to do this, but I brought it to my nose, and smelled the sticker. Sure enough—it smelled like marshmallow-sweet bananas.

I opened it carefully, like something could jump out of the envelope in an elaborate prank. I could think of at least five people in my company who would enjoy a good laugh at my expense—I’m sure there were more than five if I bothered to learn anybody’s names. I don’t think I’m a terrible boss or anything—I have a lot to prove, so I keep to myself. If anything, it was the fact that I had that penthouse office that drove people away. I know how those old geezers saw me: a little girl with a silver spoon, green around the edges. My father must’ve put me on the throne above them to spite them. It’s always about them, isn’t it?

They don’t see the little girl who spent her life chasing her daddy’s love, trying to swim against the disappointment and trying to survive the crushing expectations.

That’s why I was convinced this was a joke. I pulled the letter out of the envelope and unfolded the neatly creased quarters. It was just a single page.

“Dear Miss Ahn,

I see you every morning in the elevator, but I don’t know how to approach you. You’re so beautiful and I’m nobody, yet I find myself thinking about you all the time. Is that okay? I hope one day I can be brave enough to tell you how I feel in person, but for now, please know that there is someone here who cares about you.

Sincerely, a humble admirer.”

What the hell is this? I thought. I stuffed the letter back into the envelope and left it on my desk that day. As hard as I tried to push the thoughts out of my mind, I would return the next morning to interrogate the old men below me about the orange envelope. They’d shrug and shake their heads, plastic smiles plastered on their yellow teeth.

I work in a big glass cage, overlooking a city that never sleeps. My office at the top floor is one of millions of lights that shine at all hours of the day. I spend about 80% of my day in there, sifting through paper, managing people disguised as numbers and letters, and socializing with other wealthy, slimy people like me around the world. Every conversation concluded in a transaction, whether it’s time, money, or favours. What a ing world we live in.

The other 19% of my time is dedicated mostly to business lunches and repeating the process in other glass cages. Sometimes I sleep too—no matter what they say, I’m not made of stone. I try my best to sleep in my own bed. That’s the 1%. On the nights I can’t sleep, I sit alone at my mini bar and drink through the night. What a life.

I take the elevator twice a day, going up and going down. I never talk to anyone, though I hear my name preceding a hundred bows a day as they give me a wider berth than politeness requires.

Still, the elevator is crowded with black and grey suits, and it’s always silent all the way up. Late into the night, I am always alone when I take the elevator home. Somehow, the silence always feels louder.

On Tuesday morning, I stepped into the elevator. As usual, they parted for me as I take my post in the back, bowing and saying my name like puppets with broken strings.

If anyone were to slip me a note, this would be the place.

I looked around and surveyed the faces around me. I see these faces every day—long, round, square, broad, and small—yet they looked so strange to me that day, like I was seeing them for the first time

A man straightened his tie and checked his reflection in the door

A woman checked her emails, then her reflection in her phone’s camera

A man’s eyes flitted around nervously.

Who could it be? Who wanted so badly to play with my heart like this? My eyes marked the back of each person's head with an invisible cross—was it the tall, handsome man with the grey suit, or the man with a perpetually pink face or maybe it was a woman. The girl watching me from her selfie camera, perhaps. The thrill of such a thought made my blood rush—could it be a woman risking everything? Did such grand romantic foolishness exist?

It was Friday morning by the time I got another letter. It was another orange envelope, sealed with a smiling strawberry sticker. I’d found it in the middle of the night when I’d tried to rub the fatigue out of my eyes and ended up knocking over my purse. It slid out innocuously. Little did the envelope know what an impact it would have on me.

I read it slowly, savouring this excitement like it was the greatest treasure in the world because, maybe deep down inside, beneath the barricades around my heart, I didn’t want this to be a joke.

Once again, a single page, smelling faintly of strawberries.

“Dear Miss Ahn,

I hope you had a good week. Every day, when I leave to go home, I see your office shining brightly. Please remember to eat! On the back of this letter, I’ve enclosed a coupon for free fried chicken. Maybe you don’t need a coupon, but they will deliver to your office any time.

Yours truly, your humble admirer.”

I flipped the letter over, and, sure enough, a brightly coloured strip of paper entitled me to a free meal. Below the coupon was a cutely drawn picture of me eating chicken. I had to smile.

In retrospect, it must’ve been the picture that won me over. The simple pen drawing was so genuine. I wondered if she—and by now I was convinced my admirer was a woman, if only because my cynicism could not comprehend the idea of such thoughtfulness in men—drew it at work. Was she huddled in her cubical with her hands shielding the letter from prying eyes? I wondered if someone else had given her the coupon. Did she give up a free meal for me despite knowing how little money mattered to the girl on the throne?

I didn’t redeem the coupon, but I did buy chicken from that restaurant that night. She was right—I hadn’t eaten, and the meal made me feel a little closer to her. Even if she turned out to be fictional.

I thought about her all weekend. Come Monday morning, I was on high alert. My eyes were beginning to catch any mention of orange around me. Three more letters came and went, all heartfelt little notes with little drawings attached—I was starting to think she was a ninja. A part of me wanted to keep the secret. I believed she thought me better than I really was, and yet she seemed to be able to see right through me. A part of me badly wanted to write her back, so I kept looking.

The faces in the morning elevator rush began looking more and more familiar, though it was never the same group of people. I tried to narrow down the people I see the most. There was no pattern to the letters, unfortunately. She must’ve slipped them into my purse whenever she could. As a result, I was suspicious of every woman and man—didn’t want to rule out the possibility—I ever came across.

It was a Friday morning when I caught her.

I was wearing sunglasses—despite the hours I spent that morning trying to cover the bags under my eyes with makeup, it still looked like I hadn’t slept for two days. It was the truth, but cutthroat corporate culture didn’t need to know that. I was thinking about a proposal on my desk that morning, when I caught something reaching for my purse. I looked down at the slender wrist I had grabbed, the orange envelope trembling slightly, then my gaze travelled up her arm and into a pair of wide, fearful eyes.

She was right beside me, so small behind the tall man in the grey suit that, somehow, I’d never noticed her. How the hell did I never notice her? I didn’t let her go. The elevator went up all fifty floors. Even when she moved to exit with the tall man on the forty-first floor, I held her there. Then, not wanting to draw attention to us, I let her go, hoping she’d stay.

I took off my sunglasses then, and studied her tiny frame, squeezed into the corner of the elevator as if trying to avoid my gaze. Her eyes ducked down, her chest almost imperceptibly rising and falling. Her fingers nervously fidgeted with the orange letter. I quirked a brow; she glanced up for the briefest of moments. What would a cute girl like her want with someone like me?

We didn’t exchange a word until I took her back to my office, earning a puzzled look from my two secretaries outside. I asked them to bring up some tea, then sat the girl down in front of my desk. As I waited for the tea, I continued studying her from the other side of my desk. Everything about her seemed to match the letters to a tee, and yet she was like a puzzle I could not figure out.

My secretary came and went, and I gestured to the mug. The girl bowed, still unable to meet my eyes, and took hurriedly grabbed the mug in both hands for fear of offending me.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“W-Wheein,” she murmured. “Jung Wheein. Employee number 83260.”

“A thorough answer, Miss Jung,” I replied with a practiced smile. “Which department are you in?”

“Design.” She looked so nervous she was about to break.

“Relax, you’re not in trouble,” I assured her. “I just want to let your manager know that you’re here. What’s the name of your direct superior?”

Still, her eyes were focused on the slightly trembling mug. With a slight stutter, she gave me a name I did not recognize, and I made the call. She took a sip of her tea, and I smiled a little.

“So, Miss Jung,” I said slowly.

Before I could say another word, she blurted, “I’m sorry!” The passion of those two words spilled a little tea onto my carpet, spurring a series of apologies as she stooped down to clean the stain out with her sleeve.

“Hey, hey, stop! You’re going to ruin your blouse,” I said, rounding the desk to kneel down and grab her wrist. “It’s okay. Seriously.” I pulled a packet of tissues from my pocket and soaked up the tea. “Do I really make you that nervous?” I chuckled.

She shook her head vigorously as I pulled out a fresh tissue. “Give me your hand,” I said, to which she complied almost instantly. I held her hand in my own and dabbed at the soiled edge of her sleeve. She was warm, and her eyes, finally glittering back at me, were so bright.

“You’re really cute,” I said without thinking. She flushed a deep crimson and looked away. “You know, your letters made me happy. Even when I thought it was a joke, I—”

“It’s not a joke!” she cried, blushing again when she apologized for her outburst. “I…my feelings are real.”

I tilted my head. There was something about the way she flickered her gaze from her sleeve to my eyes, the way her lips were as red as her cheeks—the way she looked like she wanted to run away—I badly wanted to .

“What kind of feelings are those?”

She stiffened. “I…I thought it was obvious…f-from the letters.”

“But how can I know for sure if you don’t tell me outright?” I asked her.

“Miss Ahn, please,” she murmured, looking away as she slipped her hand out of mine. I curled my fingers around the empty air, and rested my fist on my knee, waiting. “You don’t need to trouble yourself with…me,” she went on, sitting back on her heels. She bowed, if only to avoid my eyes once more. “Please don’t concern yourself with someone as unworthy as me. I have no right to bother you like this.”

I sighed. “Is everyone this afraid of me?”

At this, she straightened slowly. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

I rubbed my eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Whatever,” I told her. “You can take your feelings and go back to your office now.”

I was about to stand up when I found her studying me intensely. She grabbed my wrist, and I glared. She loosened her grip for a split second, then tightened it again, pulling me forward.

I fell.

She caught me in both hands and kissed me softly.

In that moment, I felt the morning sun warm me through the window, and her soft, soft lips so seamlessly perfect against my own. My god, it’d been so long. All these years, I’d been so accustomed to my loneliness that it was as familiar to me as my own shadow. And this girl, Wheein, managed to creep into my life and steal pieces of my shadow away from me—all in little moments of bravery like this one.

At the end of the kiss, I smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I-I have to go back to work.”

She scurried off then, taking my heart with her.
 

That night, I worked through the day with love on my mind. I’d been flipping the word over and over and wondering if I could make it stick. Despite what happened that morning, Wheein was braver than I ever thought I could be. She was so beautiful and full of love, and I only knew how to drink alone.

And that right there was something I didn’t want to face—a truth about myself and my reality. If I stripped away the sparkling orange letters and the bubbly feelings in my chest, there was only a canyon of emptiness and a landfill of insecurities piled high beneath my throne.

There are a million ways people find a way to run from their reality. They might find it in a little green glass bottle, or a little plastic orange one. They might write elaborate worlds to dive into, create abstract shapes with paint, or consume it all until their chests expand and the emptiness falls right out. Even if only for a moment. Me? I just work. I take solace, not comfort, in work. What had been childish endeavours to win my father’s trust has become a safe place of understanding—as much as it crushes me, I’ve never been good at chasing independence. Independence, after all, requires figuring out what you want, and wanting is the one privilege I’ve never known.

And so, I worked and worked and worked.

Come Saturday night, I was still working.

At midnight, I was bent over my desk, my arms beneath my head on top of a pile of papers. A knock on my door, so soft I thought I’d imagined it, woke me up from my nap. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and groggily searches for whoever was still around. Typically, it was one of the nice cleaning ahjummas who come in to take my trash, but today it was Jung Wheein who stood at my door. She’d shed her office attire in favour of comfortable brown sweater. Even in the washed-out yellow light, she looked beautiful.

I caught myself in the middle of that thought. This woman, who I’d never noticed until yesterday, how could I find myself so enraptured by her beauty in that moment? I blamed it on my coffee and fatigue.

“Miss Jung,” I said, running a hand through my hair. “What are you doing here?”

She blushed and held up a plastic bag. “I brought food,” she said with a shy smile.

At that precise moment, my stomach grumbled. “How did you know?” I asked with a laugh.

“It was an educated guess. I brought a lot of things because I don’t know what you like. Is it…alright to eat with you?”

I bit my lip and, in a moment of bravery, said “Let’s take this back to my place.”

The car ride was silent, her at one end of the back seat with her hands in her lap, and I at the other end, trying to avoid eye contact with my driver through the rear-view mirror.

It was silent all the way up the elevator ride to my suite as we stood side by side, the warmth between us merging into a single centimeter of courtesy. We stole glances at each other like guilty children, too shy to touch, yet something bristled between us. Something very hard to ignore.

I took her food and told her to make herself at home, where the silence prevailed.

It wasn’t until I’d taken all the food out of the containers and was in the process of plating everything when the first words were spoken.

“Um, Miss Ahn?”

Wheein’s little voice so loud in the silence that I leapt up and slammed my forehead against the wine cabinet above me. I could still remember the stream of profanities and the way my brain seemed to rattle inside my skull. Then, her soft hands on my face and the hushed whispers of her voice soothing the pain away as if we weren’t just a pair of strangers.

She asked me if it hurt.

I kissed her again without thinking, brief and chaste but sweet all the same.

She blushed.

I told her I was fine and thanked her with a peck on the cheek.

With a cute little embarrassed grin, she asked me where the bathroom was.

By the time she returned, flashing her sheepish, dimpled smile, it was as if something clicked into place. We had dinner in the kitchen that night—the dining room being far too big and lonely—and we talked about everything and nothing at all as we bided our time in each other’s company.

I found out she was a dreamer, a creative soul who chased her way up the corporate ladder and sought her escape in other worlds. She dreamt of visiting the snowy peaks of the Alps, the burning sands of the Serengeti, and the lush, dewy air of the Amazon. I wanted to tell her I’d been to the Alps on a business trip, but the way she spoke of pictures alone with such wide-eyed wonder—I was embarrassed that I could remember nothing of my trip.

And when she asked me if there was anything I wanted to do or see, or anywhere I’d like to visit, I panicked. In my panic, I stole the words from her lips and kissed her deeply. Later, I’d blame the alcohol and the dim lighting, but no matter what the reason, one kiss soon led to many. Things escalated faster than my thoughts could catch up.

Being with her was thrilling, cathartic, and I caught myself thinking how easy it would be to fall in love with her.

And I caught myself wondering if she thought the same.

In the heat of the moment, I could’ve sworn I heard the uninhibited, drunken half-whisper of love. I whispered it back without thinking, hoping to soothe her fears and send her to paradise.

What was there to love? I later asked her as I watched her sleeping face.

I can’t say I’d ever regret what happened, despite the hours I spent on my balcony that night wondering if I’d ed it all up somehow with my half-assed, half-thought-out, half-confession. Even so, a part of me dreaded the dream coming to an end when she woke up to eventually understand who I really am.

At the break of dawn, I crawled back into my sheets and gathered her into my arms. I was, in all honesty, exhausted. Not only by the hours I’d given up to my doubts, but by the grueling years I’d spent in my office of never-ending lights. As she snuggled into my chest, I willed myself to let this be, even if it were the first and only morning we spend together.

I still remember how well I slept that morning. I slept like I’d never slept before, and in those days, it almost felt true. I dreamt about her and her shy smile, her sun-kissed morning hair, and breakfast together. I dreamt of a life where this was our everyday. I’d make her breakfast; she’d read me the news. I’d give her confidence; she’d give me security. She’d fill herself into all of my voids, and, in return, I’d make my home in hers.

In a separate dream, I woke up alone after the blissful night to find an orange envelope on my bedside table. There was no sticker on the envelope, just a crinkled letter inside with a single line scrawled in blue pen: “Goodbye.”

In the hours between awake and dreaming, I was caught between both worlds. Warm beneath the blankets, I couldn’t feel anything around me, I couldn’t tell which scenario was true. I pictured that final orange envelope and squeezed my eyes tighter, so I wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t want to wake up alone.

I wanted her to stay.

I wanted her.

I wanted.

When I finally found the courage to wake up, the sun was high in the sky, and I, sprawled across the silken sheets of my queen-sized bed, was utterly alone.

I propped myself up onto my elbow and lifted my head. Sure enough, an orange envelope awaited me. My heart dropped a thousand feet, and, like a soldier through the trenches, I slowly crawled toward my bedside table.

The envelope was crinkled, but unlike my dream there was a smiling apple sealing it. It looked like it had been lifted and replaced several times, as the glue barely stuck to the battered paper. Inside, I told myself, was the final letter. I took a deep breath and pulled out a bundle of paper.

“Dear Miss Ahn,

I think you’ve been happier lately, and it makes me happy to see you happy. I am still finding the courage to finally introduce myself, but I find myself thinking that you don’t need a useless person like me. I wonder if you would be disappointed if you met me. I’ve been selfishly taking your attention with these letters. Thank you for reading my thoughts, no matter how trivial it may seem to you. This is my final letter, and I hope by the time you read this you will continue to find happiness in your life.

Yours truly, your humble admirer.”

“What the hell?” I said out loud. I threw the first sheet onto the bed, and frantically read the second sheet.

“Dear Miss Ahn,

I was not prepared for you to meet me, so I don’t know how to write this letter. Yesterday, meeting you was the biggest privilege of my life, and yet I found myself scared of what you’d think of me. Even after the kiss, I found myself doubtful you could ever love a useless person like me. Now that you know that I’m not particularly strong, smart, or beautiful, I thought you would never want to see me again. Still, I regretted running away yesterday. I thought, ‘What if this is the last chance to tell you how I feel?’ Selfishly, I came back.

Last night was the happiest night of my life, but I still could not find the courage to tell you. I know that I am unworthy, and yet I need to try because I don’t want to live my life with regrets. I’ve enclosed what was supposed to be my final letter, so you can see that I am a coward. I want you to see who I truly am before you decide to never see me again.

I hope you will forgive me for leaving. I wanted to tell you all of this in person, but I remembered that I’d forgotten to feed my cat. If you’re okay with this, I will be back in a few hours with breakfast.

Yours truly, your humble admirer, Jung Wheein.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. I pulled on my robe and ran to the door, throwing it open with such force that it untied my robe and let it open. Jung Wheein stood at my door, wide-eyed and red-faced, awkwardly lifting the bag of food up with a sheepish smile. “I brought food,” she said, her eyes avoiding my general—and partly —direction by burning holes into her shoes.

I pulled her inside, took the food in her hand, and placed it on the floor before closing the door and wrapping my arms around her.

“You scared me,” I mumbled into her shoulder. “I woke up and thought everything had been a lie. Don’t…don’t do that.”

She gasped. “M-Miss Ahn?”

“Don’t,” I told her, “don’t call me that. I hate that name.”

She lifted her arms and squeezed me close. “H-Hyejin?” she tried.

“Yeah. That’s fine. It’s perfect.”

I smiled into her shoulder, and she smelled like fresh rain, so unlike the sugary fruitiness of her stickers.

“Are you hungry?”

“Let’s just stay here.”

“Okay.”

We stood this way for a while, warm in each other’s arms. I felt —as I was, partly—vulnerable almost, but safe. Safe enough to contemplate her shape, her scent, the abstract concept of her. I felt safe enough to want this. Want her.

“I think—” we both said at the same time. We chuckled and looked away, suddenly shy as our feelings fought to finally breathe.

When she said nothing, I went first before I could lose my nerve.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Wheein.”

She kissed me then, so salty and sweet.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to say.”
 

Notes: Hello all! This has been a crazy week. I'd been working on AIU, and it's almost ready to go, but I received some tragic news on Monday and I've been figuring things out since. With the recent emotional intensity of AIU, I just wasn't in the right mindset for it, so I apologize. Thankfully, my saving grace came in the form of a Stars concert on Tuesday, and in additional to the healing, I was able to pump myself up for an emotional palette cleanser in this story. 

Not many people know Stars (if you know them, please, PLEASE be my friend), but they're a Canadian group, and their songs have amazing narratives to most of them. Please give them some love! I picked this song because I thought it would be a whimsical piece. I'd only pictured the letter part, but when I laid out the lyrics and listened to it again, it really changed the mood of the story (it's actually so tragic??), and I found myself wanting to flesh out the entire song. I really enjoyed this experiment. I usually find it really cheesy to stick song lyrics between narratives, but this time, it kind of felt like I was using the lyrics as chapter titles. 

Anyway, please vote, subscribe, and comment if you enjoyed this! 

I apologize for any editing errors. I kind of wrote this story in three seperate intense bursts, so I haven't edited much. As always, I will revisit this in the future, so if you ever reread this story and find something different, this is why.