– M
??Letter – Jax to M
M,
I think you just made me laugh for the first time in here.
You sing to your plants? No judgment. I talk to my bike. Her name’s Marla. She's a 1997 Honda Shadow. Scratched to hell but rides like silk.
If you baked something right now, what would it be? Describe it to me.
Make it vivid. Torture me. I miss smells almost as much as freedom.
Also, your handwriting’s starting to feel familiar. Like I’d recognize it anywhere.
– Jax
??Letter – M to Jax
Jax,
Marla. Ofcourse,your bike has a name. I love that.
Okay…. fresh cinnamon rolls. The kind with cream cheese icing that melts down the sides. The dough is soft, warm, and a little sweet. I eat them too hot, always. Burn my tongue every time. Worth it.
I used to bake those every Christmas morning with my mom. She’d hum carols off-key and pretend the icing was snow.
She’s gone now.
Writing that surprised me. I guess I haven’t said it out loud in a while. But I wanted you to know.
– M
??Letter – Jax to M
M,
You and I… we keep loss close, don’t we?
Yours smells like cinnamon rolls.
Mine sounds like gravel.
Maybe that’s why I feel more human every time I read your letters.
In here, everything gets loud: voices, footsteps, doors slamming. But your words are quiet. Still. Like a fire that doesn’t flicker when the wind comes through.
Keep writing.
Please.
– Jax
??Letter – M to Jax
Jax,
I keep wondering what happens when they let you out.
