Letters from the Empty

Dry Tears

Mordelia lied. Not all of the letters were addressed to Simon. Some were addressed to love, sunshine, or even golden boy.

Often the letters broke away to line after line of poetry. Some letters broke off abruptly, left unfinished. The margins were filled with short sonnets or even single, but impacting lines. Sometimes Simon's name was just scribbled over and over again.

Dear Simon,

You are fire.

You are smoking matches and burnt out candles and flickering embers coaxing me in.

You are scorching sunlight outside a dim library. You are morning rays and warmth and the spring breaking from winter.

You are the sun, Simon. And I wouldn't mind burning.

Love,

My love, my heart, my soul.

You seem to have enough for two.

If we were in love, my soul would be you.

And maybe I would be whole.

Some letters seemed to repeat each other. Others were completely new, and complete nonsense, as if he had written them while drunk. Some were written in clean, perfect handwriting, others were scrawled, didn't follow straight lines, or had pieces smudged out of recognition.

Dear, Simon

I wish I could see you again, but

Dear Simon,

I hate you. I absolutely loath you, but not because of your powers. Not because of what you are. I hate your eyes. I hate your nose. I hate your curly hair that flops in front of your eyes.

I hate the constellations of moles on your skin and

Dear Si

Dear Simon

Dear

I hate. I lo

He is the sun, and I'm crashing into him.

Simon. Simon Snow. Simon fucking Snow. Simon Bloody Beautiful Snow. Simon my Simon Snow.

Simon started crying before he even finished. Penny stood up from where he was studying and walked over, lifted one of the papers.

"No!" Simon yelped and snatched it away, hugged it to his chest. "They're mine," he cried, more tears rolling down his cheeks.

Penny opened her mouth as if to say something, then she changed her mind and turned away.

Sometime while Simon was reading a cup of tea appeared next to him and a scone.

Simon read into the night and the morning. He mouthed the words of some of it, traced the letters to others.

Each one felt like a moment, a window into what Baz was thinking at the time, but each time they ended, it was like he died. Again and again.

Simon fell asleep, with the letters in his hands. The tears dried in his face.