THE EMAIL
Forty years after their high school romance quietly faded, Vanessa Mitchell hits send on one email—and unknowingly reopens a chapter neither she nor Michael Jordan thought they’d revisit. This is how it began.
The North Carolina sky was soft with orange and pink when Vanessa Mitchell finally sat down in her quiet kitchen, a cup of tea cooling in her hand.
She was 58. Her husband David was working late at the construction company. Her two grown children, Jason and Kira, had long since flown the nest. Today, though—today was special.
Exactly 40 years had passed since she’d graduated from Emsley A. Laney High School in Wilmington.
Forty years since the tassel turn, the promise to keep in touch.
Forty years since Michael Jordan had held her hand at the spring fling.
She picked up her phone and opened the photo album app. Scanned through old pictures she had digitized over the weekend. Friends with perms and acid-washed jeans. Boys with mustaches and football jackets. But one photo stopped her heart:
Her and Mike.
Back when he was just “Mike.”
Not Air Jordan.
Not six-time NBA champion.
Not the billionaire owner of the Charlotte Hornets.
Just Mike. Her Mike.
They were smiling so wide it almost hurt to look at.
Vanessa took a long breath and whispered, “Don’t be silly.”
But the thought wouldn’t go away.
She opened her email app. Scrolled to the draft she’d been writing and deleting for two days. The subject line was blank. The message sat there like a weight.
To whom it may concern,
My name is Vanessa Mitchell, formerly Vanessa Carter. I was a classmate of Michael Jordan’s at Laney High School in Wilmington, North Carolina. We graduated together in 1982…
She hesitated.
What was she doing?
Michael Jordan likely had teams of people who had teams of people.
Her email would disappear into a filter—or worse, be laughed at.
But still…
She wasn’t unhappy. She wasn’t chasing anything. She just wanted to acknowledge something—
That a chapter of her life had mattered. That before he was the icon, he was the boy who practiced jump shots alone in the cold, who gave her a blue teddy bear at the Jubilee carnival.
She reread the message one last time.
If this somehow reaches Michael, he might remember me as “Nessa.” The only person who ever called me that.
Her finger hovered.
Then—send.
The kitchen felt different after that.
She rinsed her teacup. Hummed the old Laney High fight song without realizing.
David came home and kissed her on the cheek.
“You find any embarrassing photos of me yet?” he joked, peeking at her phone.
“Not yet,” she smiled. “But I’m still looking.”
Vanessa didn’t tell him about the email.
She wasn’t even sure it mattered.
It probably wouldn’t be seen.
That was fine.
She’d said what she needed to say.
What she didn’t know—what she couldn’t have imagined—was that three weeks later, her phone would buzz with an email from a sender that would stop her breath:
And it would begin with one word:
Nessa.
PART 2: “NESSA”
Three weeks after sending a message she never expected anyone to read, Vanessa Mitchell opens her inbox and sees a name she never thought she’d see again. The reply isn’t long—but it changes everything.
The office was quiet that Tuesday morning.
School was out for summer, and Vanessa was alone at her desk at Laney High, organizing student files.
The rain tapped steadily against the windows.
She sipped coffee. Answered a few emails. Almost forgot about the message she had sent weeks ago.
Then—
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced down, expecting a text from David or a calendar reminder.
But it wasn’t that.
It was an email.
From: [email protected]
Her hand trembled. She stared at the screen for a full minute before daring to tap it open.
There were only a few lines:
Nessa,
It’s been a long time.
I’ll be in Charlotte next week.
If you’d like to meet for coffee—let me know.
MJ
She read it again. Then again.
He called her Nessa.
Nobody else ever had.
This wasn’t an auto-reply. This wasn’t some assistant.
This was Michael.
She sat back in her chair and looked around her office.
The same room where she’d counseled hundreds of students.
Where she told them to be brave.
To speak their truth.
To reach out before it’s too late.
And now, here she was, getting the chance to close a chapter she thought had ended long ago.
Vanessa reached for her phone.
Typed:
Coffee sounds great. Just tell me when and where.
—Nessa
That night, she sat on the back porch with David, watching fireflies blink against the summer dark.
She hadn’t planned to tell him. Not yet. But she also knew she couldn’t keep it in.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” David said, handing her a glass of wine.
She hesitated. Then:
“I got an email today. From Michael Jordan.”
His eyebrows shot up.
“The Michael Jordan? As in your high school… Michael?”
Vanessa nodded. “That one.”
David leaned back. Let it settle.
Then smiled.
“Well damn. That’s not a sentence most people get to say.”
She laughed. “No, it’s not.”
“You gonna meet him?”
“I think so.”
“Good,” he said. “You should.”
There was no jealousy. No suspicion. Just understanding.
“You’ve always wondered what happened,” David added. “Maybe it’s time you found out.”
Vanessa reached for his hand. Squeezed it.
She didn’t know what would come next.
But she knew this:
Whatever it was—it was no longer a ghost story. It was real. And it was waiting.
Continue reading Part 3 in the 2nd comment
