She'd handwritten the whole thing just because it felt wrong not to. It ended up being a lot shorter than she'd thought or wanted. Apparently polishing off an entire bottle of wine by herself wasn't the best way to finally get over the hump and finish the damned thing. Though she had finished it, and in the end she consoled herself that was enough.
She walked to the post office, grasping it in her hand, feeling her feet hitting the pavement and her heart beating out of her chest. She could have just driven there- it would have taken her a third of the time. But for the same reasons she couldn't type the letter she couldn't drive to the post office. This was a declaration, a decision, a powerful, important moment. This meant something.
She held the folded paper and ink and stamped envelope up to the slot and paused. For a second, the fear returned. Words like "wrong" and feelings like fer and pain jumped to the surface. Another one of those moments in an endless seas of moments lately that felt unreal. Life didn't work like that- like this.
But she took a breath, pushed her feet into the ground beneath her and shoved her hand forward. The letter slid into the slot and stuck, the tilt too great for it to topple over into the bin. She pushed her fingers, hugging the lip with her pads. The letter slid forward and down. And it was done.
She breathed out, swaying slightly on her ever-so-firm feet. It was a moment, no denying it. It was a benchmark that would stand out in her story. It was a letter. And it was mailed.