Letters // [thomas shelby / peaky blinders]

1,019

I sit in the dim lighting of the tent.

We've stopped tunneling, for now.

We're just sat here. In the middle of fucking nowhere.

In tents.

Sat.

Ready to die.

I pick up the rubber-banded stack of letters from Georgia and slip one envelope out.

"Tom,

My dream land changes constantly, but right now, it's from the night of my birthday before you left.

We went to dinner, got blindingly drunk with friends, your brothers and even Pol, and then we went back to the house and had a blissful night.

But your Saturday mornings dream land might just become my next one.

That picture you've been begging me for is in the envelope.

Love you forever,

Georgia."

That short-lived moment, where we wrote to each other about what we missed most.

I take my pen and start to write a new letter to her.

"G,

Remember when we used to talk about our dreamlands with each other?

Let's do that again, huh?

Christmas. The house is warm, we're fucking drunk, Polly's happy. We see your parents, but they're nice. Everything is nice. It's a perfect day. We fuck, because of course.

I wonder what you're doing now. Probably thinking of me.

I'm just getting cigarettes, dear.

I'll be back before you know it.

Thomas."

That's probably the best letter I've written her yet, to be honest.

Thomas Shelby, man of romance.