But if he doesn’t want to answer, he doesn’t have to. He can ignore the question, or tear this up, or never write again. My hand moves again before I can second-guess myself.
Because you already gave me my life. And I’d like to give something back.
My throat goes tight as I add:
Even if it’s just time.
The kettle clicks again in the background, having boiled itself dry. I didn’t even notice I’d turned it on a second time. I sign my initial again. Still not ready to give him my name. But this feels closer. A little more like trust. Like stepping from one stone to the next across a river, knowing you could still turn back if you had to, but not wanting to.
I read the whole thing through once, checking for smudges or accidental confessions. It’s awkward. A little too earnest. My metaphors are overcooked. My English teacher from school would probably mark it up with a red pen and tell me to tone it down. But it’s mine. And it’s his.
I fold the paper, slide it into a fresh envelope, and address it the same way as before, with his name and number and the prison’s address printed as neatly as I can. My hand doesn’t shake quite as much this time.
The walk down to the mailbox is colder tonight. The kind of cold that gets into your bones and makes your teeth ache when you breathe in too sharply. I pull my coat tighter, scarf wound carefully, not too tight, not anymore, around my neck.
The sky’s clear for once. Stars freckle the dark, dimmed by the glow of streetlights but still there if you squint. I tilt my head back for a second, breath pluming out, and wonder if he can see any of them through his window. If he even has a window. If he does, maybe we’re both looking at the same patch of sky right now, separated by miles and walls and mistakes that don’t belong to both of us but affect us anyway.
The mailbox stands on the corner, square and blue and unremarkable. I slip the envelope into the slot, the metal squeaking faintly as it swallows the paper. As soon as my fingers let go, anticipation and anxiety tumble over each other in my chest.
He doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Not exactly. He’s still at a distance. Still buffered by bars and officers and legal jargon and the fact that we’ve technically only shared a handful of seconds in person. But he also feels… present. Like a static hum at the edge of my thoughts. A line of ink connecting us.
And that scares me just a little. Because I know how attachment works. How quickly it can turn into expectation. How expectation can turn into disappointment. I’m wary of that. I’m wary ofmyself.But it also makes me want to write more. A lot more. Stories. Questions. The tiny details of my day he probably doesn’t care about, but might cling to anyway, the way I’m clinging to the fact he wrote, I’m glad you’re safe.
On the way back upstairs, I stop by my door, key poised at the lock, and glance down the hallway. It looks the same as it always has. Beige walls. Worn carpet. Buzzing light. But there’s a thread now. From my door. To that mailbox. To him. And for the first time since that night, I don’t feel like the only one who knows what really happened in the dark.
Nine~Paper Bridges
??Letter – J.W. to M
M,
You asked what I miss. Took me a while to answer.
I miss the sound of gravel under my boots. Not pavement. Gravel. That crunch that makes it feel like you're somewhere quiet. Real. Maybe it's a dumb answer.
I also miss my brother.
He died five years ago. Cancer. Fast and cruel. He used to call me“Jax”even when I told him not to. Said it made me sound like a comic book vigilante.
Maybe I was trying to be one on the night I met you.
Tell me something no one knows about you.
– Jax
??Letter – M to Jax
Jax,
I’m sorry about your brother.
He sounds like someone I would’ve liked. Anyone who gives people nicknames just to annoy them is a keeper in my book.
Okay, here’s my secret: I sing to my plants. Not well. Off-key and off-beat. But I swear they grow faster when I do
And sometimes, when I can't sleep, I bake. Not because I'm hungry, but because it makes the apartment smell like something good happened.
I haven’t told anyone that. Until now.
