Getting replies was not my intention. When I began writing the postcards, I didn't intend for them to be delivered, let alone read, or replied to.
I was told to write my emotions in a diary or journal. I tried it, but I still felt like the words were weighing me down. Whilst the curves of the letters and secrets stayed in my possession, I felt like I was still being held captive. The secrets simply moved from my head to the pages, which then stayed snugly in my desk drawer, yet still on my mind.
So I thought about sending letters. I wanted to write letters and send them to places they'd never be received, not knowing where they'd end up, and not facing the consequences. I assumed they'd be instantaneously binned, removed from the world and my head. But sending letters felt off to me. It just felt wrong. Writing letters seemed something that should be saved for a loved one, someone you care about. Sending a postcard fits the brief. Like my words were a quick message to say hello before disappearing from your life. But rather than wishing you were here, wishing I was there.
I supposed, living in Birmingham, that sending multiple postcards from Birmingham would be tiresome, and ultimately, odd. And thus, I bought a bulk load of postcards from places all around the world, from Bondi to Bucharest. I wrote secrets and sent them to various addresses, to people I didn't know. Freeing my mind, and appearing freer than I really was, to anybody who happened to have one delivered to their possession.
I'm not entirely sure when and/or why I decided to add a return address. I supposed that should one actually manage to be delivered, it was only fair they know me not to be a stalker from a 'foreign country'. That, and that should one ever fall into somebody's hands, I'd offer my address for them to offload secrets back onto me. It's only fair, I suppose. And here, my friend, is where the supposed international adventure began, all whilst remaining stationary.
YOU ARE READING
Postcards from Places with Red Roofs. // h.s
Fanfiction"Your friend, always. Harry." Quinn finds herself writing postcards with her secrets on. She sends these to addresses across the world, with no intention of ever receiving a reply. That is until a certain Mr. Styles warrants it worthy of a reply.
