Not even a “how are you?” which somehow made the “I’m glad you’re safe” hit even harder.
He wasn’t trying to get something out of me. He’d just answered. That’s it.
I leaned back in my chair and looked around my little kitchen like it had changed, too. Same chipped mug on the counter. Same plant drooping in the corner, leaves browning on the tips because I always forget the one by the fridge. Same old fridge magnets holding up the same crooked postcards and reminder notes.
Except now there was this letter on my table. This thread, reaching from my small, quiet life to someone else’s cell.
And now?
Now I want to know more.
I want to know what he does all day when the walls close in. What he thinks about when he can’t sleep. If he has anyone coming to visit him, anyone sending him cards with badly drawn trees, or jokes about prison food. I want to know if that night felt as big to him as it did to me. I want to know who taught him to fight like that and who failed him enough that he had to learn.
I stand up abruptly before my thoughts can go even deeper into places that scare me. I need tea. Tea is safe. Tea is normal. Tea is controllable: kettle, water, boil, brew, sip. I fill the kettle and flick it on. The little red-light glows. The familiar calm ritual puts some distance between my racing mind and my restless body. I pick my favorite mug—the one with the faint crack down the side that I’m terrified will one day give way but hasn’t yet.
While the kettle hums, I stand at the window and watch the street below. Snow has gathered in the gutters again, and the pavement shines wet. A man in a red beanie walks his dog, theleash a thin line between them. A kid stomps in a slushy puddle and gets scolded. Someone struggles with bags of presents, the paper bright against the grey.
Life goes on, oblivious. Even mine, apparently. The kettle clicks off. I pour, dunk the tea bag, and watch the color bleed into the water. The steam rises, fogging my glasses, bringing me back to the table and the letter waiting there.
I sit back down and grab my pen. My hand hovers over the paper. I don’t know how to start. Not really.“Dear inmate”is obviously out.“Dear stranger who saved my life”sounds like the opening line of a melodramatic romance novel I’d be embarrassed to admit I liked.
“Dear Jaxon”feels… too intimate, somehow, even though I used his full name in the first letter.
He signed this one J.W.There’s something weirdly respectful about matching that distance.
I write:
Dear J.W.,
The pen stalls for a second.What now?
You didn’t have to write back.
I jot down.
I didn’t expect it.
The words feel clumsy at first, but then they start to smooth out as they go.
But I’m glad you did.
I chew my bottom lip, thinking.
I don’t really know how to do this, writing letters to someone I’ve only seen once, for a few seconds. But that night didn’t feel like “once.” It felt bigger.
My chest tightens as I write that, but it’s true. It felt like a hinge. Like a point, everything before folds one way, and everything after folds another. I pause, then let the next line spill out.
You were a storm. The kind that knocks the wind out of the bad things.
I grimace a little at how dramatic that sounds, but I leave it. If there’s anywhere to be a little dramatic, it’s on paper. And it’s not like he’s some stranger from a dating app. He’s the guy who roared. I tap the pen against the page, thinking.
I still don’t know what to call what happened, or why I feel the need to write to you again, but I do.
That feels bare. Honest. So, I balance it with something simple. Something that gives him an easy way to respond without asking him to spill his whole soul.
So… what’s something you miss? Anything. A place, a food, a person. Tell me something real.
I stare at that line for a long moment. It feels… intrusive, in a way. Asking someone in his position to talk about what they miss when every second of their day is a reminder of it.
