She walked the short distance from the bus stop alone.
She found the envelope with her name on it waiting on the kitchen table when she got home. Her mother had obviously put it there, knowing quite rightly that she alone should open it. Sitting alone in her room she thought back to the argument. Nobody heard the harsh words that passed between them; words that she alone responded to with such growing emotion. Only she knew the hand that had scrawled her name across the envelope. She knew that it was proper that she alone read the note that the young man had delivered.
No one saw her leave in the dead of night. Quite alone, she closed the door silently and left the house. Nobody saw her walk to the edge of the village where the river ran beneath the bridge. No one witnessed her clambering to the top of the bridges stone wall. No one saw her standing there, clutching the note. Nobody saw her fall, and nobody heard the splash coming from the dark water below.
No one was privy to any of this… not even her.
She alone would know this story. Only she would know that this series of events, the entirety of which, from the moment she received his note, only played out in her mind. In truth, apart from being alarmingly overimaginative, she was a perfectly sensible person.
In fact, without hesitation, she flushed the note down the toilet.