I chew on the inside of my cheek, rereading the words already on the page. They sound…raw. Too raw. Like I’m talking to an old friend, someone who might actually listen.
My chest starts to tighten and I’m on the verge of crumpling the paper, but I remind myself there’s no return address. No way for him to respond. This is a one-way thing. Harmless.
That thought loosens something in me.
So, I continue to write about missing my sister, about our past and my present. About long days at work and lonely nights in my small apartment. I write that I hope the person reading this has someone waiting for them, and if they don’t, that maybe this letter can be a small reminder that they aren’t invisible.
My hand slows as I reach the end.
I stare at the blank space beneath the last line, my heart beating a little faster than it should.
This is definitely too personal.
I should tear it up.
Instead, I sign my name.
But only my first name.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at it, weighing the risk of sending something so honest into the world. Then I fold the card, slide it into the envelope, and seal it before I can change my mind.
It’s only a letter.
It doesn’t mean anything.
I slip it into one of the care packages, retape the box shut, and stack it with the others before shutting down my computer and grabbing my bag.
By tomorrow, it will be gone.
And I will never know what it means to the person who opens it.
Chapter One
Zane
One year later (January)
I’m standing across the street from a modern office building in downtown Los Angeles, and my heart is pounding like I’m about to eject from a jet that’s already on fire.
I’ve faced missile locks with steadier hands than this.
The letter is folded in my pocket, creases soft from being handled too many times. I don’t need to take it out to remember every word. I know it by heart. The shape of her sentences. The way she wrote like she didn’t expect anyone to really understand.
I did.
God, I understood.
I got the letter last November, mixed in with a care package meant for the whole unit. Socks. Protein bars. Some cheap candy. And a single envelope that didn’t look like much until I opened it and something in my chest cracked wide open.
She didn’t know my name.
Didn’t know my face.
But she wrote like she saw me anyway.
I read it once standing under harsh fluorescent lights, the hum of generators buzzing around me, and then I read it again sitting on the edge of my bunk long after lights-out. I read it until the paper felt thin between my fingers. I read it when the nights were too quiet and the days were too loud. I read it when I needed something—someone— to remind me that I wasn’t just a callsign or a body in a flight suit.
There was no way to answer.
