This is a short-short story that I wrote around 15 years ago.
When Carolle Tinneman died Thursday night, right after Bingo, nobody had seen it coming. She was a young, vibrant woman, successful and well-liked by all. She was active in the church and helped run a couple of local charity organizations. She was dependable and always willing to help.
When word spread that she was found with a small handgun in her right palm and a matching bullet that had entered her right temple, it was assumed to be murder. Even when forensics determined it was, without a doubt, a suicide, no one really bought it.
A week later, the letters arrived.
Every person who knew Carolle from work, church, charities, even her longtime friends and her family, received one of the letters. They were each identical to the word, though there was no evidence that a copy-machine had been used.
Most people put it aside, sensing its importance, but not understanding its meaning. Some were even outright confused by the letter’s contents. Everyone agreed, however, that the letter was from Carolle:
There is something in my life that has been sorely missing. I have chosen not to burden you with my need. I would rather to go to God, who can give me my heart’s wish without having to be told what it is. I need two words, not in the casual meaningless way we throw the phrase around every day. I need them to be genuine, as true to their meaning as only emotions such as love and respect can provide. I do not blame anyone for denying me this, for people do not think about it in this way. Thus I go to my God to hear the two words I have been longing for: