𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐢𝐱. letters that remain unseen.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

Mooie jongen,

Things have been quite boring now that you aren't by my side. I feel like there are less laughs, less jokes, even less happiness overall. My schools quite dull and dingy, so I reckon that doesn't really helps. Get this, the windows are barred. I mean, what purpose does that serve? Afraid we'll jump out the window head first, are they? I̶-̶c̶e̶r̶t̶a̶i̶n̶l̶y̶-̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶-̶i̶f̶-̶g̶i̶v̶e̶n̶-̶t̶h̶e̶-̶c̶h̶a̶n̶c̶e̶.

  Regardless, it feels like forever since I last seen you, doesn't it? It's only been a few weeks but a part of me feels like I don't quite remember what you look like. The way the human brain works is odd, isn't it? You spend every moment with someone, and yet, you still forget what they look like. Perhaps it's the way our brains are wired, or perhaps it's an act of God, or maybe I've just got shit memory. I guess we'll never know. O̶u̶r̶-̶p̶i̶c̶t̶u̶r̶e̶-̶i̶s̶-̶h̶u̶n̶g̶-̶a̶b̶o̶v̶e̶-̶m̶y̶-̶b̶e̶d̶-̶a̶s̶ r̶e̶m̶i̶n̶d̶e̶r̶.

  In other news, it's odd seeing a clean copy of Romeo and Juliet. I've brought my spare copy with me to annotate it again, since I've given you mine, but I definitely don't regret it for a second. I know you're taking care of it and that's comforting enough for me. How are you doing? How's St. Brutus? I've heard it's a rambunctious school, but I guess I'm not one to judge. Will you be home for winter hols? I'll be, and I was thinking perhaps we could go to the cinema together? There are loads of new movies being released in December. I don't know, I think it'd be fun. Let me know. Take care of yourself, and write back soon. I̶-̶m̶i̶s̶s̶-̶y̶o̶u̶.

Lot's of hugs,
Vin xoxo

She crumped the parchment in a slight fit of rage with a huff, carelessly tossing it over the shoulder, pinching the bridge of her nose when it hits the floor with a slight thud. She feels she's been sitting at her desk for ages ( three hours and forty five minutes, to be exact ) muscles sore from being hunched over, neck stiff as a result from the same continuous position. Every letter doesn't seem quite right or the way she wants it to sound, like she isn't the one that's truly writing it.

Lavinia's certain this is her twenty eighth letter that she's written, and honestly, she's starting to feel a bit like a loser. She'd never had this problem before, writing letters to someone she cares about that is. Throughout the year she sends no letters, and receives no letters in return. Who is she trying to convince though? There's no one that would want to write her. The hollow gap in her heart distantly aches, an echo of potential what if's. What if her deadbeat of a father wrote her? What if her piss poor excuse of a mother wrote her? She dances with the devil all night long to ponder the probabilities, but she knows she'd have better luck receiving a letter from her jailed uncle. That way, at least, she knows that he has nothing better to do, has no one else that would bother to reply. Loneliness is a bitter disease, and each day it further chips away at the hollow gap in her heart.