On the first month after allura's death, Lance received the first of Keith's letters. The writing on the paper was a messy scrawl that he had clearly made a valiant yet futile attempt to neaten.
Hey Lance, Keith here. I'm not good at this kind of thing, but I hope you're doing okay. I know you're probably not—things have been hard lately. I don't know what to say to make things better, but I want you to know I'm still here. You don't have to answer, and I'm not asking you to. I just wanted you to know you're not alone, even if it feels like you are.
Take care of yourself, Lance.
—Keith
Nearly a year later, the fifth letter:
Hey Lance. the rebuild of the blade of marmora is done. everything is going fine. There was a few galra causing trouble a few nights ago, but luckily no one was hurt. I've already taken care of them. I hope you're doing okay. You've always been the one who talks, who jokes, who keeps everyone annoyed. It feels strange not having that.
I'll see you in seven nights.
-Keith
Lance sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the crumpled letter in his hand, guilt weighing heavy on his chest. It was the fifth letter Keith had sent him. Every word reminded Lance that Keith was trying—really trying—to be there for him, but it only made Lance feel worse. With a heavy sigh, Lance grabbed a pen and a piece of paper.
Since Allura's death, Lance hadn't been himself. Everyone noticed it, though no one knew quite how to approach him anymore. The easygoing charm that used to light up a room had faded. Her death had fractured something inside him, something he couldn't quite piece back together. Since then, he had hurt everyone around him—Hunk, Pidge, Shiro, even Coran. He had pushed them away with sharp words and cold silences, unable to stop himself. Lance didn't mean to be cruel. Deep down, he knew he was hurting the people he cared about, the people who had always been there for him. But it was like a storm had settled inside him, and he didn't know how to control it. Every time he saw their concerned faces or heard their attempts to reach out, something inside him snapped. His grief, his anger, his guilt—it all spilled over, leaving nothing but hurt in its wake.
The guilt of hurting the others was bad enough, but the idea of hurting Keith too—it gnawed at him, a constant pressure on his chest. Keith didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to be dragged down into the mess of Lance's grief, to be another person Lance pushed away without meaning to. He had already seen too much, dealt with too much. And Lance knew, deep down, that if he didn't distance himself now, he'd hurt Keith just like he had hurt the others. Maybe even worse.
he began writing.
Keith, stop sending me letters.
– Lance
