Chapter 8 His Handwriting
Eight ~ His Handwriting
Mara
IChecked The Mailbox Three Times Before It Came. Ridiculous, I Know. But once you send something that personal, something that raw, you start imagining all the ways it might go unanswered, like the universe misfiles you.
The first time, it was barely noon the day after I posted the letter.
I knew, knew it was too soon, but I had to walk past the boxes on my way up the stairs, and my hand moved on its own, key slipping into the metal like it had rehearsed this already.
Empty. Just the cool smell of dust and old paper and nothing.
The second time, it was the following morning. I was on my way out, tote bag over my shoulder, heading to the library. I tried to be nonchalant about it, like I was just grabbing pizza flyers or a missed parcel note. Still nothing. I shut the little door gently, biting the inside of my cheek.
Maybe he wouldn’t write back.
Maybe the guards never gave it to him.
Maybe it was stupid to think a man like that, a stranger who bled in the snow, would bother writing to a woman whose name he didn’t even know.
Maybe…. I cut myself off before I could spiral.
The third time, it was late afternoon. The sky was that washed-out blue it gets just before it gives up and turns to evening.
My fingers were stiff from the cold. I’d gone grocery shopping, and the plastic bag handles were cutting into my palms. I told myself I was just checking.
The mailbox door stuck a little, as if it too thought I was being dramatic.
This time, there it was. A thin envelope folded over once. My name, just M, written in unfamiliar, blocky handwriting. No return address, of course. Just a stamp and the sense that my entire heartbeat had somehow landed inside my chest again and was knocking from the inside.
For a second, I just… stared at it. My first instinct wasn’t joy.
It was a weird, clenched panic, like I’d opened a door and found someone already on the other side, hand raised to knock.
He wrote back. My hand shook as I pulled it out, fingers brushing along the ridge of the stamp.
The paper felt cool and slightly rough, like it had been handled by a few people already, sorted, stamped, approved, passed along a chain of strangers before it found me.
I didn’t open it in the hallway. The hallway has thin walls and nosy neighbors, and I couldn’t bear the idea of Mrs. Dunn from 3B popping her head out to ask if I’d finally “heard from that nice boy” she’d invented for me.
I tucked the envelope between my fingers and my palm like it was something breakable and climbed the stairs slower than usual.
Inside, the apartment smelled faintly like cinnamon and the lemon cleaner I’d used on the counters that morning in an attempt to scrub away memories.
The star ornament still hung in the window, spinning lazily when the radiator kicked on.
I shut the door, turned the lock, then the deadbolt, then checked both, because of course I did. Then I sat at my kitchen table, set the envelope down in front of me, and stared at it for a full minute.
It felt heavier than it should. Like it carried something more than ink. Like if I opened it and the words were cruel, or dismissive, or worse, indifferent, it would confirm some deep, gnawing suspicion I hadn’t had the courage to name yet.
That I cared more about what happened that night than he did. That I was just a blip in the wreckage of his life. Another incident. Another fight. Another mess.
“Just open it,” I whispered to myself. “You’re the one who started this.”
My fingers slid under the flap, careful not to rip too much. The glue gave with a soft sound. I unfolded the paper once, twice, heart thudding a little harder with each motion. And when I finally opened it, the words hit me like a quiet storm.
M,
I didn’t expect a letter.
Didn’t think I’d hear from you again, not after the way that night ended.
I’m glad you’re safe.
That’s all I ever cared about.
– J.W.
That was it. Four lines. No dramatic story.
No apology. No expectations. No asking why I ran.
No guilt pushed back on me, no bitterness.
Just… truth. I read it once, eyes moving too fast, like I expected more to appear between the lines if I blinked.
Then I read it again, slower this time. Then a third time, just to let each word soak into the cracks the night left behind.
I didn’t expect a letter. Neither did I, if I’m honest. Not when I first walked through my door after that night. Not when I sat on the floor with my back against the wood and my knees pulled up to my chest.
But then his name had lodged itself under my skin like a splinter, and the guilt had swelled around it, and the only way I’d been able to breathe was to write.
I’m glad you’re safe. That’s all I ever cared about.
I pressed the paper flat on the table and traced the edges with my fingers.
It wasn’t what I thought he’d say. It was better.
Because it meant he remembered. Not just some blurry impression of a woman in trouble, but me.
The girl from the alley. The one who ran.
The one who left him standing there with his fists bloody and his shoulders heaving.
And it meant he meant what he did that night. That it wasn’t just instinct or rage or whatever the court’s going to call it. He wanted me safe. That was the only thing that mattered to him.
Not glory.
Not thanks.
Not “winning” a fight.
Just… me getting home.
A ridiculous warmth bloomed in my chest, and my eyes stung, which annoyed me.
Crying over four lines felt like overkill.
But trauma doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and apparently neither does relief.
I sat there with the letter in front of me, my tea going cold beside my elbow, and I realized something else:
He didn’t ask for anything.
No “tell me more.”
No “visit me.”
No “can you testify again?”
Not even a “how are you?” which somehow made the “I’m glad you’re safe” hit even harder.
He wasn’t trying to get something out of me. He’d just answered. That’s it.
I leaned back in my chair and looked around my little kitchen like it had changed, too.
Same chipped mug on the counter. Same plant drooping in the corner, leaves browning on the tips because I always forget the one by the fridge.
Same old fridge magnets holding up the same crooked postcards and reminder notes.
Except now there was this letter on my table. This thread, reaching from my small, quiet life to someone else’s cell.
And now?
Now I want to know more.
I want to know what he does all day when the walls close in.
What he thinks about when he can’t sleep.
If he has anyone coming to visit him, anyone sending him cards with badly drawn trees, or jokes about prison food.
I want to know if that night felt as big to him as it did to me.
I want to know who taught him to fight like that and who failed him enough that he had to learn.
I stand up abruptly before my thoughts can go even deeper into places that scare me.
I need tea. Tea is safe. Tea is normal. Tea is controllable: kettle, water, boil, brew, sip.
I fill the kettle and flick it on. The little red-light glows.
The familiar calm ritual puts some distance between my racing mind and my restless body.
I pick my favorite mug—the one with the faint crack down the side that I’m terrified will one day give way but hasn’t yet.
While the kettle hums, I stand at the window and watch the street below.
Snow has gathered in the gutters again, and the pavement shines wet.
A man in a red beanie walks his dog, the leash a thin line between them.
A kid stomps in a slushy puddle and gets scolded.
Someone struggles with bags of presents, the paper bright against the grey.
Life goes on, oblivious. Even mine, apparently. The kettle clicks off. I pour, dunk the tea bag, and watch the color bleed into the water. The steam rises, fogging my glasses, bringing me back to the table and the letter waiting there.
I sit back down and grab my pen. My hand hovers over the paper. I don’t know how to start. Not really. “Dear inmate” is obviously out. “Dear stranger who saved my life” sounds like the opening line of a melodramatic romance novel I’d be embarrassed to admit I liked.
“Dear Jaxon” feels… too intimate, somehow, even though I used his full name in the first letter.
He signed this one J.W. There’s something weirdly respectful about matching that distance.
I write:
Dear J.W.,
The pen stalls for a second. What now?
You didn’t have to write back.
I jot down.
I didn’t expect it.
The words feel clumsy at first, but then they start to smooth out as they go.
But I’m glad you did.
I chew my bottom lip, thinking.
I don’t really know how to do this, writing letters to someone I’ve only seen once, for a few seconds. But that night didn’t feel like “once.” It felt bigger.
My chest tightens as I write that, but it’s true. It felt like a hinge. Like a point, everything before folds one way, and everything after folds another. I pause, then let the next line spill out.
You were a storm. The kind that knocks the wind out of the bad things.
I grimace a little at how dramatic that sounds, but I leave it. If there’s anywhere to be a little dramatic, it’s on paper. And it’s not like he’s some stranger from a dating app. He’s the guy who roared. I tap the pen against the page, thinking.
I still don’t know what to call what happened, or why I feel the need to write to you again, but I do.
That feels bare. Honest. So, I balance it with something simple. Something that gives him an easy way to respond without asking him to spill his whole soul.
So… what’s something you miss? Anything. A place, a food, a person. Tell me something real.
I stare at that line for a long moment. It feels… intrusive, in a way. Asking someone in his position to talk about what they miss when every second of their day is a reminder of it.
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 of myself. 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.