Chapter 9 – Adrian's Second Reply
The envelope sat on the kitchen table all afternoon before Adrian dared to open it.
He'd recognized it immediately when he pulled it from the stack of mail: the same cream paper, the same neat forwarding label, the same weight that seemed to vibrate in his hands. He had slipped it into his jacket pocket, carried it with him like a stone pressing against his ribs.
But opening it — that was different. Opening it meant letting her words into his chest again, letting them touch places he usually kept locked.
It wasn't until evening, when the apartment settled into its usual silence, that he reached for the letter. The sun had slipped below the horizon, painting the room in a dim, blue-gray wash. He sat at his desk, flicked on the lamp, and slit the envelope open with his thumb.
Her handwriting spilled across the page, darker and firmer than before, though he could still see the uneven hesitations in the strokes. She had pressed hard, the ink slightly raised against the paper.
He read slowly, carefully, almost reverently.
You said weakness is pretending we don't need anyone. I've pretended for a long time. I've worn strength like a costume, and some days I can't tell if I'm still inside it or if it's all that's left of me. Writing this feels dangerous, like I'm breaking my own rules.
But your reply… it mattered more than I expected. No one has stayed with me in the dark before, not like that. If you mean what you wrote, then maybe I want to believe you. Even for a moment. Belief doesn't come easily to me. But maybe I can try.
I don't know your name, or who you are, but if you're still listening… I'd like to write again.
Adrian set the page down, exhaling slowly.
Dangerous. She had used that word. He understood it. Writing — opening yourself, handing someone your rawest edges — it was dangerous. And yet she had done it anyway.
He ran his hand across his face, feeling the exhaustion of too many nights without rest. For years, the only conversations he'd had about the inside of his head were with doctors who scribbled notes while nodding at him. Their words were clinical: trauma response, survivor's guilt, intrusive thoughts. None of it sounded like living.
But here, in her ink, was something raw. Not diagnosis. Not analysis. Just truth.
He took a blank sheet of paper and laid it before him. His pen felt heavier than usual, and he paused before writing, staring at the empty page until his chest ached.
Finally, he began.
Adrian's Letter
(his handwriting darker, slower, words spaced unevenly, with faint smudges where he pressed too long)
Dangerous doesn't always mean bad. Sometimes the things that scare us are the things we need most. I don't know if I can give you the right words, but I can give you honest ones.
I understand the costume you described. I've worn one, too. Mine is silence. It keeps people from asking questions, but it also keeps them too far away to stay. I've lived in that distance for a long time.
Belief takes time. Don't force yourself. Don't rush. Just know this: I will wait. If you choose to write, I will answer. Always.
A stranger can't fix everything, but sometimes a stranger can be the one who listens the hardest. I needed to answer you as much as you needed to be answered.
He stared at what he'd written. It wasn't enough — how could it be enough? — but it was true. Every word.
He folded the page neatly, the creases sharp. His hand hesitated before sealing the envelope, eyes lingering on the ink smudge where his hand had trembled mid-sentence. He almost started over. Almost.
But no — he let the imperfection stand.
For the first time in years, he didn't feel like silence was the only option. He had answered, and someone was listening.
When he slid the letter into the outgoing mail pile, a strange thought whispered at the edge of his mind: maybe this was what it felt like to step out from behind the costume, if only by inches.