A piece of paper.  A piece of paper has never felt so heavy.  Felt so dense to my fingertips.
   
    She hands it to me from across the table, while we’re seated in the cafeteria.

    It catches me off-guard.  I’m still swallowing the last bite of the turkey wrap I bought.  

    And the fellow who decided to join us has no idea.  He’s munching on his quesadilla, looking about the cafeteria.  Wondering whether that woman who’s in a mania will find and annoy him.

    But the paper.  The paper.

    It’s covered in words.  Words written so big and words written so small.  Words repeated and repeated and repeated and words that must’ve hurt so much that they were only written once.  In handwriting that could only suggest a trembling hand.  A red face.    

    I wince while I read.

    There are curses sprawled all over.  Curses towards someone else and curses towards herself.  There are quotations that deeply wounded whoever received the lines.  There’s sex stained across the entire page.  Alcohol and lies.  Betrayal and rejection.  Pain.  Sorrow.  All the good stuff.

    Once I’m done reading I can’t move.  I can’t look away from the page.  From the piece of paper that was torn from a composition notebook.  My hands latch onto it as if it’ll break if it falls to the floor.
   
    She’s staring at me from across the table.

    “Does this change anything?” she asks.

    I look up.  “Only for the better,” I say.

    Only for the better.  And I mean it.