I wrote a letter to you.
But I'm not sure if you got it.
Actually, I'm not even sure I sent it.
I wrote it on my flight out of Tromsø. I write on a laptop sometimes. Since I'm a proper programmer, I make my entire screen black and write with electric green text like a hacker. It's easier on my eyes but unfortunately also quite easy for people to read over my shoulder.
This time it was a middle aged woman, you the type old enough to have nothing much to live for but old enough to have enough energy to be a fucking busybody.
I wrote to you about how it feels to see the entire island of Tromsø from the sky, The first flat Lina and I lived in, the street I stayed on with Sofie, the harbour and the path to the midget lighthouse.
It only takes an hour and a bit to walk the entire length of the island but it seemed the whole world to me, and I guess to other people as well. There's a hospital, kindergartens, schools, a university, old peoples homes and even graveyards.
It was then I realised that the woman was reading your letter. She kept looking away when I glanced in her direction. But she pretended to look elsewhere. When I went back to writing I could see her craning her neck to read more of the letter. It kind of spurred me on in a perverse way to write even harsher things about Tromsø and its inhabitants so I wrote:
"And some people could be born on the island live their whole lives on the island and die without ever leaving."
As I typed the full stop I looked at her through via the reflection in my screen - I wanted to let her know that I wrote that just for her.