Dear Isabel,
The exams are over. The chalk dust is gone. Even the loudspeaker was quiet this morning.
We stood in line like always, but something was different. The sky was too blue.
The air too soft. The teachers too distracted.
And then—someone ran.
No orders. No whistle. Just a pair of feet, then another, and suddenly we were all running.
Not from anything. Just toward the summer.
Four weeks. Four small infinities.
Behind the buildings, behind the rules, we laughed so loudly it felt illegal.
My friend said: maybe we’ll sleep over this year. Maybe our mothers will look away just long enough.
Isabel—do you get summers like this? The kind that make your chest hurt, but in a good way?
Tell me what you do. Tell me the smell of your freedom. The shape of your joy.
I’ll write back from the riverbank.
Maybe we’ll jump in.
Yours always,
Soo-jin
Soo-jin
Isabel
