They gave me a date. December 23rd. I’ll be out by Christmas.
The pencil feels clumsy, but the words are clear. I pause, pressing my tongue to the back of my teeth.
I keep telling myself not to expect anything, not from the world, and not from you.
That line stings as I write it because it’s exactly the kind of self-protection I’ve lived on for years. Expect nothing. Be surprised by nothing. That way, nothing can touch you. Except she already has.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope.
I exhale slowly, watching the graphite settle in the grooves of the letters.
You’ve been the only clear thing in a fog of months. The only reason I feel human most days.
My ribs ache at that admission, even on paper. There’s a long stretch of empty space after that. I tap the pencil against it, thinking. The ticking of the block clock down the hall nags at the edge of my attention. I don’t want to write promises I can’t keep. I don’t want to tell her I’m going to show up on her doorstep and fix both our lives. That’s not how this works.
So, I tell the truth.
If I find you… I won’t show up unless I’m ready. And I won’t show up unless I believe I’m something worth finding.
My throat feels tight as I write that. Because it’s a bigger if than the words can carry.
If I can keep my temper in check. If I can find work. If I can walk down a street without wanting to fight every guy who looks at me like I’m nothing.
But if I do…
The pencil pauses. This is the part that feels like stepping off a ledge.
Would you still want me to?
I sign it before I can second-guess it.
– Jax
No initials this time. Just my name. The one she heard in a courtroom and saw on a file. The one she’s been writing at the top of the paper for months. I stare at it for a long time before sealing the envelope. The paper looks small in my hands. Fragile. Ridiculous, maybe, that I’m pinning so much on a handful of sentences that may or may not land the way, I hope.
I fold it, slide it into the envelope, lick the flap, and press it down. My tongue tastes glue and dust. I don’t bother decorating the outside, just her initial and the address I’ve memorized now, written in the careful block letters the guards can read easily when they censor.
I sit there with it for a while; the envelope balanced between my fingers. This might be the last letter I ever send from here. The thought hits me sideways. From now on, anything I say to her could be said face-to-face. No more two-week delays. Nomore hoping the mail room doesn’t “lose” something. No more checking the schedule on the wall like it’s a lifeline.
Next time I write to her, I want it to be in person. If she’ll let me. A guard walks by on mail pick-up, keys jangling at his hip, expression bored. He pauses when he sees the envelope in my hand.
“Outgoing?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, standing to step closer to the bars. My fingers brush his as I pass it through.
He doesn’t comment, just tucks it into the stack with all the other letters to moms, girlfriends, kids. Bills. Court notices. Junk. He moves on, whistling something off-key and Christmas-sounding under his breath.
I sit back down and press my palms over my face. In my mind, I can already see the letter in her hands. Her at that little table she wrote about. Steam from a mug curled up beside her. Brows furrowing as she reads. Lips pressing together. Maybe she’ll smile.
Maybe she’ll cry.
Maybe she’ll curse me for putting this.
Eleven~Lights in the Window
Mara
IBought A Christmas Tree. I Don’t Know What Possessed Me.
