Dear Mr. PostMan

Future Girl? I am John Lennon

1963 – John

John sprinted down the street, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he ducked into a narrow alleyway. Paul, George, and Ringo followed close behind, pressing against the brick wall as a swarm of screaming girls thundered past.

"Bloody hell," John panted, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Feels like they get faster every day."

"That's 'cause they are," Paul huffed, doubling over to catch his breath. "We can't even step outside without getting chased."

"Price of fame, mate," George smirked. "Now then, Johnny boy, have you opened that mysterious letter yet?"

John rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, sure, I was just about to crack it open—right in the middle of running for my life."

Paul grinned. "Well, now's as good a time as any."

"We'll do it when we're home safe and not being hunted like a pack of rabbits, yeah?" John shot back, peeking around the corner to see if the coast was clear.

"Ooooh, Johnny's got a secret admirer," George teased, nudging Ringo, who chuckled along.

"Oh, you're gonna get it," John warned before giving George a playful smack upside the head.

After a bit more banter, the lads managed to sneak their way back to John's house. He waved off George and Ringo before heading inside with Paul.

John dropped onto his chair, pulled the letter from his pocket, and unfolded it carefully. His eyes scanned the page, his brow furrowing as he read.

"Paul," he muttered, his voice unusually serious, "read this. Tell me I'm not going mad."

Paul plopped down beside him, grabbing the letter. "Why? What's it say?"

John exhaled sharply. "Are you really John Lennon? Because I'm fairly certain that's impossible. It's 2018 over here, and I bet it's 1963 where you are..." He gestured vaguely at the letter. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Paul's eyes widened as he finished reading. A slow grin spread across his face. "Well, isn't it obvious, Johnny?" He handed the letter back. "You've got a letter from the future."

John let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, come off it, Macca. That's insane."

"Is it, though?" Paul leaned back, arms crossed. "I mean, look at us—one minute we're playing tiny clubs, next thing you know, we're outrunning mobs of screaming birds. Who's to say a letter can't travel through time?"

John ran a hand over his face. "This is mad. Proper mad."

Paul shrugged. "Only one way to find out, mate. Write her back. See if she's got proof." He stood, stretching. "Anyway, I've gotta get going. Keep me posted, eh? Can't wait to hear what your future bird has to say next."

John shook his head, still in disbelief, as Paul left. But as he sat there, letter in hand, something inside him buzzed with curiosity. If this was some elaborate prank, it was a bloody good one.

Still... there was only one way to be sure.

He grabbed the newspaper off the table, cut out the date, and tucked it into the envelope before starting his reply.

Dear Anna,

Right, so I've got to say—this is mental. But I like a bit of madness, so let's roll with it.

It is 1963 here. I stuck a newspaper clipping inside as proof. Now, be a love and send me some proof of your time, yeah? 'Cause if you're really from 2018, then this is the wildest thing that's ever happened to me. And believe me, I've had some wild nights.

Also, gear to hear me band's still kicking in the future. Didn't think we'd last this long, if I'm honest. The lads'll love hearing about this one.

PS. This is how you write a letter, Anna—none of those weird little () symbols, alright? Bit dodgy, that.

PPS. This whole thing might be completely bonkers, but I have to admit—I like writing to you. So let's keep it up and see how long we can get away with this, yeah?

Your mate from the past,
John

John sealed the letter, smirking as he dropped it into the mailbox.

"Alright then, future girl," he muttered. "Let's see what you've got."

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