CRIMINAL!RAFE x MELANCHOLY!READER
âĄCW: Depression, ED/bulimia, self-harm references, incarceration, manslaughter, trauma, attempted assault (backstory), profanity, and heavy angst. The logistics abt like jail arenât accurate. All characters are adults. If you donât like, donât read pls!!
⥠masterlist âĄ
a/n: itâs finally out after two daysđđIâve been really mentally exhausted!
You hadnât really known what you were expecting when you signed up for the churchâs correspondence program.
Maybe that was the point.
The little pamphlet had been sitting on the table in the fellowship hall for three weeks before you finally took one. Write to someone who could use a friend.
Youâd almost laughed when you read it. You didnât feel particularly qualified to be anybodyâs friend.
You were twenty-five years old and tired in a way that sleep didnât seem capable of fixing. Depression had made everything feel muted around the edges. Your apartment was clean because cleaning was easier than thinking. Your cat was fed because somebody had to be. You went to work, came home, went to church when you could make yourself go, and tried to pretend you werenât spending more and more time fighting your own thoughts.
The eating disorder was worse when you were lonely. The loneliness was worse when the eating disorder was worse. It was a stupid little circle that never seemed to end.
So when the church announced that they were looking for volunteers to write to incarcerated adults, you thought, Why not?
Maybe it would give you something to do outside yourself.
The man they assigned you was named Rafe Cameron.
Thirty-five.
Incarcerated for thirteen years.
Manslaughter.
The information sheet didnât say much more than that. There was a brief explanation about his offense, how someone had tried to assault his mother and he stopped the man, and a reminder that correspondence with incarcerated people could be complicated. No promises of friendship. No promises of redemption. No expectation that either party would change the otherâs life.
You appreciated that.
You didnât want to change anybodyâs life.
You just wanted somebody to talk to.
So you made a package.
Not anything impressive.
A homemade batch of Boy Bait, because youâd found the recipe online and the name had made you laugh cause of how silly it was. One M&M cookie. A picture of you with your cat sitting stubbornly in your lap, looking considerably more annoyed about the photograph than you were.
Then you sat down and wrote.
Your name.
Your age.
Nothing too specific.
You told him you were twenty-five and that youâd joined the churchâs program because you had been dealing with depression and bulimia for a while and thought maybe talking to someone who was dealing with something different might help.
Then, because you were nervous, you rambled.
You told him about your cat.
You told him about how you hated folding laundry.
You told him youâd recently gotten obsessed with a television show and had watched three seasons in four days.
You told him you didnât know what you were supposed to say to someone in prison.
Then you wrote, âI guess I just wanted to talk to somebody whoâs going through something different. Iâm tired of sitting alone with my own head all the time.â
You stared at that sentence for a long time.
Then you folded the letter.
You put it in the envelope.
And mailed it.
You didnât expect an answer.
At least, you told yourself you didnât.
Three weeks later, one appeared.
â°ââĄâ°â
âYou sent me a fucking cookie.â
That was how Rafe Cameronâs first letter began.
Not Hello.
Not Dearâ
Not even your name.
âYou sent me a fucking cookie. Not even a whole package of cookies. One cookie. What the hell am I supposed to do with one cookie? The Boy Bait was good, though. Donât know what the hell you put in it, but that shit disappeared quick. So I guess you got one thing right. Your cat looks like an asshole. And you write too much. I donât know why the fuck you thought telling some stranger in prison about your depression was a good idea. Iâm not a therapist. I donât know anything about that shit. Everybodyâs depressed. Everybodyâs got problems. Doesnât mean you gotta make a whole fucking personality out of it. And the eating thing? Bulimia, right? Thatâs what you said. Look, Iâm gonna be straight with you. I donât get it. If youâre hungry, eat. If youâre not, donât. Seems simple enough to me. I donât know why people make everything so complicated. You said you wanted to talk to somebody whoâs going through more than depression. Well, congratulations. Iâm in prison. Thirteen years. You wanted perspective? There you go. I donât get to walk outside whenever I want. I donât get to see my family whenever I want. I donât get to fuck my girl back home, not like sheâd wanna see me anyway. I donât get to decide what I eat or where I sleep or who I spend my time around. So forgive me if I donât have a lot of sympathy for somebody whoâs sad in an apartment with a cat and all the bullshit Iâm missing.â
You stared at the sentence until the words blurred and wiped your cheek. You hadnât even realized you were crying.
âAnd before you ask, yeah, I know what I did. Manslaughter. Thatâs what the court called it. I donât agree with them. Guy put his hands on my mother, he tried something. I mean he was my age and I knew I could take him.. I wasnât gonna stand there and watch it happen. I pulled my gun. He died. They called it manslaughter. I call it doing what needed to be done. My mama comes first. My mother is dead now, though. So if you were looking for some inspirational prison story where I learned a lesson and became a better person, you picked the wrong guy. You seem nice. Too nice, probably. Donât take that the wrong way. Just donât expect me to sit here and hold your hand through your problems. I got enough of my own. The cookie was good. Send another one.â
You sat there for a long time. The room was quiet except for your cat moving around on the carpet. You looked at the photograph then back at the letter. You cried harder. Not because heâd called you weak, but because heâd been rude. It was because heâd taken something youâd been ashamed of and made it sound stupid.
Something youâd spent years trying to understand and hurt you enough and he turned it into a few careless sentences. You almost threw the letter away. Instead, you put it inside your desk drawer. You didnât know why you were writing back. Should you fight fire for fire? Kill him with kindness? It felt like you were dealing with a stubborn donkey.
â°ââĄâ°â
âI cried when I read your letter.â
You stared at the sentence.
It felt humiliating to admit.
âI wasnât going to tell you that. I thought it would make me look pathetic. But you said you wanted me to be honest, so Iâm being honest. You were right about one thing. You arenât my therapist. I wasnât asking you to be. I wasnât expecting you to fix me. I probably shouldâve explained that better. But you were wrong about the other stuff. Depression isnât just being sad. I know everybody has bad days. I know everybody has problems. Thatâs not what Iâm talking about. And bulimia isnât me deciding whether Iâm hungry. If it were that easy, I wouldnât have spent so much time wishing it was that easy. Iâm not telling you this because I want sympathy. Iâm telling you because you said you didnât understand it, and I thought maybe you might want to. And Iâm not going to apologize for being sad in an apartment with a cat. My cat is very good company, she cares. Iâm sorry about your mother. I donât know what happened. I wasnât there. I donât know whether the court was right or whether you were right. I donât think I can decide that from one paragraph on a piece of paper. But I know what itâs like to lose somebody, and Iâm sorry sheâs gone. I also donât think youâre some misunderstood hero. You donât have to be. You can be somebody who did something terrible and still believe you had a reason for doing it. Those things can exist at the same time. You said you didnât want an inspirational prison story. Good. I donât want one either. I donât need you to become a better person for me. I donât need you to tell me everything happens for a reason. I donât need you to tell me Iâm beautiful or strong or that everything will get better eventually. I just want somebody to write to. You donât have to understand my depression. You donât have to understand my eating disorder. You can tell me about prison. You can complain about the food. You can tell me what you hate. You can tell me about your mother if you want. You can tell me about the stupidest thing somebody did in the cell block. You can tell me about a book you read. You can tell me nothing important at all. And yes, I will send another cookie if Iâm able. But Iâm not sending you two, never two. Youâll get too comfy.â
You folded the letter.
Before sealing the envelope, you unfolded the paper and wrote one more thing..
âP.S. My cat says she doesnât like you either.â
â°ââĄâ°â
Rafeâs second letter came faster.
Two weeks.
You knew the handwriting before you even opened it.
â°ââĄâ°â
âYour cat can go fuck herself. Not literally. That sounds bad. I showed your picture to ny cellmate. He said your cat looks like she hates everybody (he called you pretty, asked if I had any other pictures, donât worry I told the guy no) I told him thatâs probably why you like her. And donât get smart about the cookie. You said youâd send another one. Iâm holding you to that. I want two. I didnât mean to make you cry. I know that probably doesnât mean shit coming from me after what I wrote. But I didnât. I was pissed off. I get pissed off a lot. Been here long enough that sometimes I donât know what else to do with it. Doesnât excuse being an asshole. I still donât understand the eating thing. Probably never will. Whyâd you wanna throw your guts up, or workout till your legs burn, or do whatever you guys do. But I read the part of your letter where you said you wished it were easy. I guess I can understand wishing something were easy. Thirteen years is a long. People think you get used to it. Maybe you do. I donât know. You get used to certain things. The noise. The doors. The schedule. People leaving. People not coming back. You get used to waking up and remembering youâre still here. Thatâs probably enough depressing shit for one letter. Tell me about your cat.â
You laughed softly.
For the first time in a long time, you didnât feel like crying afterward. You pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward yourself and started writing.
â°ââĄâ°â
The next letter took you four days to finish. Not because you didnât know what to say. But, somehow, you had too much to say.
Rafe had asked about your cat.
That shouldnât have mattered as much as it did.
You sat at your kitchen table on Sunday afternoon with a mug of coffee going cold beside your elbow and your cat stretched across the other half of the table like she paid rent.
âDear Rafe,
Youâre an asshole, You asked about my cat, so I suppose Iâm obligated to tell you about her. Her name is Clementine. She hates everyone except me, and Iâm honestly not sure she even likes me that much. She follows me around the apartment but then gets offended when I try to pick her up. She sleeps on my pillow even though I have bought her approximately seven different beds. She knocked my coffee over yesterday. I donât think it was an accident. Youâd probably like her. Sheâs mean. You said something in your last letter that I keep thinking about. You said people think you get used to prison. Maybe you do. I donât know. Iâve never been in prison. But I think Iâve gotten used to some things too. Iâve gotten used to waking up tired. Iâve gotten used to pretending Iâm okay when somebody asks. Iâve gotten used to cancelling plans because I donât feel like leaving my apartment. Iâve gotten used to looking at food and having an entire argument with myself about it. Iâve gotten used to feeling guilty for things I shouldnât feel guilty for. I think Iâve gotten used to being afraid of my own brain.â
Your eyes stung.
âSometimes when things get really bad, I donât trust myself very much. I donât want to get into details, because I donât think thatâs helpful for either of us. But Iâve had periods where Iâve hurt myself because I didnât know what else to do with everything I was feeling. Iâm telling you because you said thirteen years makes you understand what it feels like to wake up and remember youâre still there. I know thatâs not the same thing. Iâm not pretending it is. But I understood what you meant.â
You leaned back in your chair.
For a moment, you considered tearing up the entire page.
Then Clementine stepped directly onto it.
You looked down at her.
âSeriously?â
She blinked.
You sighed.
âYouâre lucky youâre cute.â
She walked away.
âAnyway. Thatâs enough emotional oversharing for one letter..Tell me something about you instead. What were you like before prison? You donât have to answer if you donât want to. And donât say âan asshole.â I already know that.â
â°ââĄâ°â
Rafeâs response arrived eleven days later.
Youâd were sitting on the floor when you opened it while Clementine was asleep beside your thigh.
The envelope was heavier than usual.
âFirst of all, Clementine sounds like a bitch. Second, you asked what I was like before this place. Thatâs not a short answer. I was spoiled. Thatâs probably the easiest way to put it. Rich kid. Entitled. Thought I could get away with anything. Most of the time I could. There I had a house that was bigger than some of the places Iâve seen people live in here. My family had money. My father had money. Everybody knew my last name. I wasnât happy, though. People always think money means youâre happy. It doesnât. My family was fucked up long before I ever got here. My mother was the only person who really knew me. She wasnât perfect. Neither was I. But she was my mother. The guy I killed wasnât some random innocent guy walking down the street. He was hurting her. I saw it happen. I donât care what the court says. I donât care what some lawyer says. I know what I saw. I know you said you donât know if I was right or wrong. Thatâs probably the smartest thing youâve said so far. Because you werenât there, but I was. And sometimes I wonder if thatâs the worst part. Because everybody wants you to feel something simple. Guilty. Innocent. Sorry. Angry. Whatever. They want a clean answer. I donât have one. I donât regret protecting my mother. I regret that she died anyway. I donât talk about her much. So congratulations, you got me to talk about my mother in a letter to a strangerâdonât think Iâm ignoring the other thing you told me. The self-harm shit. I donât know what to say to that. Actually, thatâs a lie. I know what to say. Donât fucking do it. I donât know what your life is like. I donât know what your head sounds like when youâre alone. But I know what it feels like to have something happen that you canât take back. Donât give yourself another thing you canât take back. And Iâm not saying that because Iâm some wise prison guy. Iâm saying it because I donât want to read one day that youâre gone. That would piss me off. As for the depression and eating stuff, Iâm still probably going to say dumb shit. Iâm not pretending I understand it now. But Iâll stop telling you itâs easy. Fair? Also, Iâm not apologizing to your cat. Send another cookie.â
You sat there for several minutes after finishing the letter.
The room had gone quiet around you. You could hear the faint hum of the house, the occasional shift of Clementine somewhere nearby, but otherwise there was nothing demanding your attention. The letter remained open in your hands, your eyes drifting back over the same few lines even though youâd already read them.
Eventually, you folded it carefully along the existing creases.
You didnât shove it into a drawer or leave it on your nightstand like you normally did with things you planned to deal with later. Instead, you walked over to the dresser and pulled open the same drawer where youâd kept the first letter.
You placed the new one on top.
Then you stopped.
For a moment, you simply looked down at the small stack.
Two letters.
That was all.
Two pieces of paper from a man youâd never met, someone who lived on the other side of walls and locked doors and a life so different from yours that sometimes it was difficult to understand how youâd ended up corresponding with him in the first place.
And somehow, they already felt important.
You closed the drawer.
The next letter you sent was shorter.
Not because you had less to say.
If anything, you had too much.
You were just afraid of saying too much of it.
You sat at your desk with the paper in front of you, pen tapping lightly against the edge while you tried to decide where to start. Eventually, you wrote the easiest thing first.
âYou got me to laugh twice in one letter, which I think means youâre obligated to keep writing to me. Also, Clementine would like it formally stated that she doesnât care about your opinion. Thank you for what you said about the other stuff. I donât really know what else to say about it. Iâm trying. Some days are better than others.
You stopped again.
The room suddenly felt much quieter.
There were things you could have written. Things you could have explained if you knew how to put them into words without feeling exposed.
âIâm not asking you to keep me safe. Thatâs not your responsibility. But it helped hearing somebody say they didnât want me to disappear. I donât think anybody really says things like that to me. Anyway, I made more Boy Bait. Iâm sending two cookies this time. Donât get used to it.â
You folded the letter when you were finished. Your eyes moved toward the drawer.
After a moment, you pulled it open again and reached inside for another photograph of Clementine. She was sprawled upside down across the couch, completely unconcerned with how ridiculous she looked. Her paws were hanging over the edge, her face caught at an angle that somehow made her look both adorable and deeply offended by the existence of cameras.
You tucked the photograph into the envelope.
Then, underneath it, you wrote one final note.
âProof that sheâs an asshole. Only sometimeâ
You sealed everything before you could change your mind.
Then you mailed it.
By the time Rafe received it, heâd already started waiting for your letters.
He wouldnât have admitted that.
Not to you.
Not to his cellmate.
Not even to himself, if heâd been asked directly.
But he knew the schedule.
He knew approximately how long the mail took to reach him. He knew which days the guards usually distributed correspondence and which days were more likely to leave him with nothing but junk mail and paperwork.
And on those days, he found himself looking toward the door.
It annoyed him.
Everything annoyed him lately.
The food.
The noise.
The rules.
The lights that never seemed quite right.
The constant movement around him.
The way people stared.
The way the years kept stacking up behind him until thirteen of them had somehow become his new normal.
His mother was still dead.
That fact hadnât become easier with time.
Neither had the memory of being twenty-two.
Sometimes it came back with an almost painful clarityâthe person heâd been before everything split into a before and an after, before thirteen years of his life disappeared behind concrete and steel.
There were days when he wondered if that version of himself even existed anymore.
But the letters didnât annoy him.
Not really.
Your letters were strange.
You didnât treat him like a monster.
You didnât treat him like some tragic victim, either.
You didnât ask invasive questions about his crime or expect him to explain every ugly part of his past. You didnât preach at him. You didnât tell him that everything happened for a reason.
You certainly didnât tell him that God had some grand plan for his life.
You didnât even tell him he was a good person.
You just talked.
That was the weird part.
You complained.
You told him about your cat.
You told him about the stupid things that happened at work.
You told him when youâd had a bad day.
Sometimes you wrote about things that were difficult, and sometimes you spent three pages talking about absolutely nothing.
Once, youâd spent nearly half a page complaining about a woman at the grocery store who had stopped in the middle of an aisle and apparently decided that was the perfect place to contemplate her entire existence.
Rafe had laughed when heâd read it.
Actually laughed.
It had caught him so off guard that heâd had to read the paragraph twice.
His cellmate had looked over at him like heâd finally lost his mind.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â
His cellmate glanced at the letter in Rafeâs hands.
âYou laughing at a letter?â
Rafe folded the page immediately.
âMind your business.â
A snort came from the other side of the room.
âYou got a girlfriend?â
Rafeâs expression hardened.
âNo.â
The answer came too quickly.
His cellmate raised an eyebrow but, mercifully, didnât push.
Rafe ignored him.
Instead, he looked down at the photograph youâd sent.
Clementine.
She looked exactly as unpleasant as youâd described.
Somehow, that made the picture better.
He turned it over once in his hands, studying the ridiculous little photograph with an expression he wouldâve denied having if anyone had pointed it out.
Then he smiled.
Just slightly.
He hated that.
He hated how easily youâd started slipping into his routine.
He hated that he could recognize your handwriting from across the room now. Hated that he knew the shape of your letters, the way you crossed certain words out when you changed your mind, the little habits that had become familiar without him ever consciously deciding to memorize them.
He hated that when you didnât write, he noticed.
Most of all, he hated that there was a small, stubborn part of him that looked forward to the mail.
Because looking forward to things in prison was dangerous.
Hope had a way of making the days harder.
It was easier to survive thirteen years when youâd convinced yourself there was nothing waiting for you on the other side of them. Easier when tomorrow was just another day to get through, another date on the calendar, another stretch of time that didnât require you to want anything.
Rafe had gotten very good at not wanting things.
Heâd had to.
Then you started sending letters.
And suddenly, somewhere beyond those walls, there was a woman with a cat who apparently hated his opinions, made homemade cookies, complained about grocery-store etiquette, and still wanted to hear from him.
He didnât know what to do with that.
It wouldâve been easier if you treated him differently.
If you were afraid of him.
If you judged him.
If you wanted something from him.
Any of that wouldâve made sense.
Instead, you simply kept writing.
And Rafe had spent thirteen years learning how to live without caring.
You were making that harder.
â°ââĄâ°â
Your third letter arrived on a Tuesday.
Rafe knew it was yours before he even saw the handwriting properly. There was something about the envelope that had become familiar to him by then, enough that his attention caught on it almost automatically when the mail was handed over.
He waited until he was back in his cell before opening it.
The paper unfolded in his hands.
At the top, you had written:
âRafe,â
That was all it said at first.
He frowned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked down at the page. There was enough empty space beneath his name to make him suspicious.
Then he continued reading.
âIâm mad at you.â
Rafe sat back.
Oh.
Interesting.
He read the next line.
âNot because of anything you said this time.â
That only made him more curious.
âBecause you were right about one thing. I donât think I realized how much I was waiting for your letters until yesterday when there wasnât one.â
The corner of Rafeâs mouth twitched.
âI checked the mailbox three times.â
He laughed.
Quietly, almost under his breath.
âThis is embarrassing.â
He could practically hear your voice when he read it.
Then:
âI think youâre becoming my friend.â
His smile disappeared.
Rafe read the sentence again.
Then again.
Friend.
The word sat strangely in his head.
He hadnât had one of those in a long time.
Not really.
There were people he knew. People heâd grown up with. People who had visited him. People who occasionally wrote. There were names he recognized and faces he could still remember, even after thirteen years had changed more than he liked to admit.
But a friend?
Somebody who actually knew things about him?
Somebody who asked questions because they genuinely wanted the answers instead of because they were trying to figure out what kind of person he was?
That was different.
Rafe looked back down at the letter.
You continued.
âI donât know if youâre comfortable with that. If youâre not, you can tell me.â
His thumb rested against the edge of the paper.
Then:
âBut I like writing to you.â
Rafe stared at the sentence.
There was another paragraph.
âYouâre rude. Youâre stubborn. Youâre occasionally an asshole. Youâre also funny, even though I donât think youâre trying to be. And you actually listened when I told you something mattered to me, even if you didnât understand it.â
He swallowed.
âI think thatâs worth something.â
For a moment, he didnât move.
His thumb ran slowly along the edge of the paper, smoothing down a corner that didnât actually need smoothing.
He wasnât sure what he was supposed to do with that.
Nobody had said something like that to him in a long time.
Not without wanting something in return.
Then he reached the final paragraph.
âAnyway, Iâm going to stop being sentimental now because I already regret writing this.â
A tiny smile appeared despite himself.
Of course you regretted it.
He could almost picture you sitting somewhere with the letter in front of you, realizing youâd said too much and immediately wishing you could take half of it back.
Then he read the final question.
âTell me something you miss.â
Rafe stared at it for a long time.
There were a thousand answers.
His motherâs voice.
The ocean.
His old house.
Driving.
Music played too loud.
The feeling of being able to walk somewhere without asking permission.
His bedroom.
His freedom.
His life.
The list kept going.
He couldâve filled the entire page.
Maybe several.
But he couldnât write all of that.
Not yet.
So he picked one.
He turned the page over and rested his pen against the paper.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then he wrote:
âI miss my motherâs cooking.â
He stopped.
The sentence looked far more honest sitting there in his own handwriting than it had sounded in his head.
He kept going.
âNot even anything fancy. She used to make this chicken dish. I donât remember what she called it. Probably had some stupid French name. I just remember the smell.â
His pen slowed.
âI miss hearing her in the kitchen.â
He stared at the sentence.
There was something uncomfortable about seeing it written down. Something too real about admitting that after thirteen years, what he missed wasnât necessarily some huge, dramatic memory.
Sometimes it was just a kitchen.
A smell.
His motherâs voice somewhere in the next room.
He looked away for a moment before forcing himself to continue.
âI miss being twenty-two.â
That one was harder.
He sat there with the pen hovering over the paper.
Then he wrote:
âI thought I had forever.â
Rafe looked toward the narrow window.
There wasnât much to see.
There rarely was.
Just another reminder that the world continued beyond the walls without him.
He lowered his eyes again.
âI think everybody thinks that when theyâre young.â
He paused.
Then continued.
âYou donât understand that your life can split in half in one afternoon.â
His jaw tightened.
âOne minute youâre one person. Then something happens and youâre somebody else forever.â
He didnât write about the gun.
He didnât write about the body.
He didnât write about the courtroom.
He didnât need to.
You hadnât asked him to explain the worst day of his life.
Youâd only asked what he missed.
So he gave you the pieces he could.
âI miss not knowing what prison smells like.â
Rafe actually laughed at that one.
It was easier to make a joke out of it.
He added:
âYou probably donât want to hear about that.â
Then, after a moment:
âI miss the ocean.â
That was easier.
He could almost feel it when he wrote the words.
âI miss driving.â
Another.
âI miss being able to decide where I was going.â
His pen stopped.
He looked back at your letter.
I think youâre becoming my friend.
The sentence was still there.
Still strange.
Still sitting somewhere inside his chest where he wasnât used to feeling anything anymore.
He picked up the pen again.
âI donât know if Iâm good at being somebodyâs friend anymore.â
He stared at it.
Something about the word bothered him.
He crossed out anymore.
For a second, he considered leaving it that way.
Instead, he rewrote the sentence.
âI donât know if Iâm good at being somebodyâs friend.â
Better.
More honest.
Then:
âBut I like your letters.â
Rafe frowned.
Too vulnerable.
His pen hovered over the sentence.
He almost crossed it out.
Almost.
He didnât.
Instead, he continued.
âSo I guess you can keep writing.â
He hesitated.
Then, after a moment:
âAnd Iâll keep answering.â
That was enough.
He signed his name at the bottom.
Then he looked over the letter one last time.
It felt strange.
Not bad.
Just strange.
Heâd spent years making sure he didnât need much from anybody. Heâd learned how to let days pass without expecting anything from them.
And now there was a person on the outside waiting for his letters.
A person who had admitted she checked the mailbox three times.
A person who called him an asshole and then sent him cookies anyway.
A person who had somehow become his friend without either of them deciding when it happened.
Rafe picked up his pen one last time.
He added a final sentence.
âTell Clementine she owes me a cookie.â
He folded the letter carefully.
For once, when the door closed behind him, he didnât feel quite so angry.
â°ââĄâ°â
You read his answer at midnight.
You were sitting cross-legged on your bed in an old pair of pajamas, the room quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. Clementine was curled against your hip, warm and heavy beneath the blanket, occasionally shifting in her sleep whenever you moved too much.
The letter was open in your lap.
You read the part about his mother twice.
Not because you hadnât understood it the first time, but because something about the way heâd written it made you slow down. There was no joke attached to it. No sarcastic comment to soften the edges. No attempt to make himself sound tougher than he was.
Just the truth.
You read the part about being twenty-two next.
Then the sentence about how his life had split in half.
You stared at that one for a while.
You didnât know what had happened that afternoon thirteen years ago. Not really. You knew the version that existed in court records, the version people had repeated to you when theyâd explained who you were corresponding with. You knew the charge. You knew the sentence. You knew enough to understand that there were things about Rafe Cameronâs life that couldnât be condensed into a few paragraphs on a form.
But you didnât need to know everything.
For the first time, Rafe Cameron stopped being the prisoner theyâd assigned you.
He was just Rafe.
Thirty-five years old. Thirteen years into a sentence heâd spent more than a decade learning how to live inside. Still angry about things he couldnât change. Still stubborn enough to argue with you over things that absolutely did not matter. Still carrying his mother with him, even after all those years.
Still remembering the ocean.
Still missing the stupid, ordinary freedom of getting into a car and driving somewhere just because he felt like it.
And, apparently, still learning how to write to somebody without turning every feeling into a joke or an insult.
You understood that last part more than you wanted to admit.
And you?
You were still you.
Still depressed. Still struggling. Still trying to figure out your relationship with food and with yourself. Still having days when getting through the day felt considerably harder than it should have. Still learning that being unhappy didnât mean you had to punish yourself for it.
Nothing about you had magically changed just because someone had started writing you letters from a prison.
There hadnât been some grand transformation.
No sudden healing. No miraculous forgiveness. No moment where everything inside your head suddenly became quiet.
There were still bad days.
There were still mornings when you woke up already exhausted. There were still nights when you couldnât quite explain why you felt so low. There were still things you didnât know how to talk about, even on paper.
But now, once a week, there was a letter.
Sometimes it was two pages.
Sometimes it was five.
Sometimes it was barely a page at all, because Rafe had apparently decided that spending half a page complaining about prison food counted as meaningful correspondence.
Youâd started looking forward to those letters anyway.
It was such a small thing that you almost felt ridiculous admitting how much it mattered.
You would hear the mail come in and find yourself wondering if there would be an envelope with his handwriting on it. Youâd tell yourself you didnât care either way, and then youâd notice yourself checking again ten minutes later.
Sometimes the letters were important.
Sometimes they werenât.
You wrote about Clementine, who had apparently become a recurring character in his life despite having never met him. Rafe had developed very strong opinions about her simply based on the stories you told him, most of which seemed to consist of her sleeping wherever she pleased and looking at you like you were personally responsible for every inconvenience in her life.
He complained about prison food.
A lot.
You told him about your terrible coworkers, including the one who somehow managed to make every shift feel twice as long just by being there. Rafe told you about the books heâd been reading, occasionally getting so invested in explaining one that youâd forget for a moment where the letter had come from.
You told him when youâd had a bad week.
He never told you that he understood.
You appreciated that.
Instead, he started asking a simple question.
You doing okay?
Sometimes you lied.
Sometimes you wrote back that you were fine because explaining why you werenât felt like too much work.
Eventually, though, you started telling him when the answer was no.
And Rafe stopped trying to fix it.
He didnât send you paragraphs about how everything would be okay. He didnât pretend he had some perfect answer. He didnât tell you that you needed to look on the bright side or that other people had it worse.
He just wrote back.
Sometimes it was only a few lines.
Sometimes it was something as simple as, Bad day, huh? Iâm here.
And somehow, that was better.
Because neither of you needed to be fixed.
Maybe that was the thing youâd both been getting wrong.
You werenât a project for him, and he wasnât a project for you. Neither of you could undo what had happened before the letters started. You couldnât reach through the paper and change thirteen years of his life, and he couldnât reach through it and erase the difficult parts of yours.
All you could do was keep writing.
Keep answering.
Keep showing up.
Two people sitting on opposite sides of a system neither of you completely understood, passing small pieces of your lives back and forth on paper.
A story about a cat.
A complaint about prison food.
A terrible day at work.
A book.
A memory.
A question.
A little bit of honesty.
And, eventually, a little bit of trust.
You looked down at the letter again, your thumb resting against the edge of the paper.
Clementine shifted beside you and tucked herself closer to your side.
You smiled faintly.
Maybe that was enough for tonight.
Not healing.
Not fixing.
Just being noticed.
Just knowing that somewhere, on the other side of all those locked doors and rules and miles, somebody knew you were still there.
And for now, that was enough.
â°ââĄâ°â
Four months into writing to Rafe, you made a decision that felt considerably more terrifying than mailing a photograph of your cat to a convicted prisoner.
You agreed to visit him.
The church coordinator had brought it up first.
Not in a pushy way. She hadnât tried to convince you or make it sound like some obligation youâd taken on when you joined the correspondence program. Sheâd simply mentioned it one afternoon in that careful, almost conversational tone people used when they knew they were asking something that might be difficult.
âHe asked if youâd ever consider an in-person visit.â
Youâd stared at her.
Then youâd spent approximately three days pretending you hadnât heard her.
Because youâd never met Rafe.
Not really.
You knew his handwriting better than his face. You knew he hated the prison coffee, that he missed his motherâs cooking, and that heâd somehow developed a personal vendetta against Clementine despite having never actually met her.
You knew he swore entirely too much.
You knew he had a habit of answering serious questions with jokes and jokes with even more jokes. You knew heâd been incarcerated for thirteen years, and you knew enough about his past to understand that there were parts of his life he still struggled to talk about.
You knew him through ink.
Through envelopes.
Through the pieces of himself heâd decided were safe enough to put onto paper.
But sitting across from him?
That felt different.
That made everything real.
Still, you agreed.
And now you were sitting in the visitation room with your hands folded tightly in your lap, trying very hard not to look as nervous as you felt.
The room was exactly as unpleasant as youâd imagined.
Too bright. Too cold. Too many rules posted in places where everyone was expected to read them. Plastic tables. Hard chairs. The faint, constant noise of people talking around you.
There were families scattered throughout the room, some speaking quietly, others leaning across their tables as though trying to close the distance between themselves and the person sitting opposite them.
You kept looking toward the door.
You told yourself you werenât waiting impatiently.
You were just looking.
There was a difference.
Then the door opened.
Your heart jumped.
Rafe walked in.
You knew immediately that it was him.
Not because youâd seen photographs.
You hadnât.
But because youâd spent four months learning the shape of his personality through ink. You knew the cadence of his jokes, the way he wrote when he was annoyed, the way his handwriting seemed to get messier whenever he had something difficult to say.
None of that prepared you for the actual person.
He was taller than youâd pictured.
Broader, too.
There was something imposing about him even in prison clothes, something rough around the edges that the letters hadnât quite captured. His expression was guarded as he stepped into the room, his eyes moving over the tables and faces before he finally looked up.
Then he saw you.
He stopped.
For half a second, neither of you moved.
You simply stared at each other.
Then his mouth tilted into a crooked smile.
âWell, fuck.â
Your eyebrows lifted.
He started walking toward you.
âYouâre real.â
You blinked.
âLast time I checked.â
He laughed.
It was a low, surprised sound, and hearing it in person was strange. Familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Then his eyes moved over you again.
âPretty little birdy.â
Your smile vanished.
âIâm sorry?â
He stopped.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Your brow furrowed.
âDid you just call me a bird?â
Rafeâs eyebrows shot up.
âNo.â
âYou literally did.â
âI said pretty little birdy.â
âThatâs still a bird.â
For a second, he looked genuinely confused.
Then he rubbed his jaw.
âI meant it affectionate.â
You crossed your arms.
âThat doesnât make it better.â
âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm not a bird.â
âI know youâre not a fucking bird.â
âThen why did you call me one?â
He stared at you like he was trying to figure out how the conversation had somehow gotten away from him.
Then he sighed.
âJesus Christ.â
Your eyebrows furrowed again.
He noticed.
âYou do that every time I swear.â
âBecause you swear every thirty seconds.â
âI do not.â
âYou just did.â
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then pointed at you.
âSee? Thatâs why I like you.â
You blinked.
He sat down across from you.
âAnd Iâm not calling you a bird in some misogynistic way,â he added. âIâm not saying youâre delicate or helpless or whatever the fuck. I mean it likeââ
He gestured vaguely, clearly struggling to explain something that had sounded much simpler in his head.
âLike youâre⊠small.â
Your eyes narrowed.
âThat isnât helping.â
âPretty.â
You blinked.
âWhat?â
âI mean youâre pretty.â
Your face warmed.
Rafe seemed to realize what heâd said at exactly the same time you did.
He leaned back in his chair.
âThatâs what I meant.â
You looked down at your hands.
âOh.â
âPretty little birdy,â he repeated, quieter this time. âAffectionate. Thatâs all.â
You hesitated.
Then sighed.
âFine.â
His grin returned immediately.
âGood.â
âBut I still donât like it.â
âYouâll get used to it.â
âI absolutely will not.â
âWeâll see.â
You rolled your eyes.
He laughed.
And somehow, just like that, the awkwardness broke.
For the first few minutes, you talked about absolutely nothing.
The weather.
The prison food.
Clementine.
You told him sheâd knocked over another cup of coffee.
âSheâs got something against coffee,â you said.
Rafe shook his head.
âSheâs got something against you having joy.â
You frowned.
âWhy are you always insulting my cat?â
âBecause sheâs not here to defend herself.â
âSheâs a sweet girl.â
âSheâs a criminal.â
You stared at him.
âYouâre literally in prison.â
There was a beat of silence.
Rafe looked at you.
Then he laughed so hard he had to turn his head away.
âOkay,â he said, still laughing. âThat was good.â
You smiled.
âIâve been saving that one.â
âI can tell.â
The conversation became easier after that.
He asked about your work, and you complained about your boss. He listened with the same attention heâd given your letters, occasionally making some dry comment that made you laugh despite yourself.
He asked whether youâd made more Boy Bait.
You told him yes.
He nodded approvingly.
âGood.â
You looked at him.
âYou sound like youâve been waiting.â
âI have.â
Your eyebrows rose.
âYou couldâve just said you missed my letters.â
âI did not say that.â
âYou implied it.â
âI did no such thing.â
âYou absolutely did.â
He shook his head.
âYou talk too much.â
âYouâve said that before.â
âBecause itâs still true.â
You smiled.
âYou like it.â
He looked at you for a second.
Then shrugged.
âMaybe.â
You werenât sure what to do with that.
So you looked down at your hands.
For a little while, neither of you spoke.
There was a comfortable silence between you.
Not awkward.
Not empty.
Just quiet.
It was strange how quickly that had happened. Four months of letters had somehow made sitting across from a stranger feel less like meeting a stranger and more like finally putting a voice and a face to someone youâd already gotten to know.
Eventually, Rafe leaned forward.
âSo.â
You looked up.
âSo?â
âYou gonna tell me what you actually meant in those letters?â
Your brow furrowed.
âAbout what?â
âYour depression.â
You went still.
âAnd the bulimia.â
Your fingers tightened together.
Rafe noticed immediately.
His expression changed.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
âIâm not trying to make you uncomfortable.â
âI know.â
âYou said you wanted me to understand.â
âI did.â
âSo explain it.â
You took a slow breath.
You werenât sure how to explain something that had taken you years to understand yourself. There wasnât one neat definition for it, no single sentence that could make another person understand what it was like from inside your own head.
Still, you tried.
âDepression isnât just being sad,â you began.
Rafe nodded.
You continued.
âItâs like⊠everything becomes harder. Getting out of bed. Taking a shower. Answering messages. Eating. Sleeping. Sometimes things that used to make me happy just donât.â
He didnât interrupt.
That was the first thing you noticed.
He simply listened.
âIt isnât always crying, either,â you said. âSometimes I donât feel anything. I can be surrounded by people and feel completely disconnected from them.â
Rafeâs expression had gone serious.
You looked down.
âAnd bulimia is⊠complicated.â
âOkay.â
âItâs not just eating too much.â
âI know.â
You gave him a look.
He immediately raised his hands.
âIâm listening.â
You continued.
âItâs tied to everything else. Shame. Anxiety. Feeling like I need control. Sometimes Iâll eat because Iâm overwhelmed or upset, and then I feel horrible about it. And then I try to compensate for it.â
You didnât give details.
You didnât need to.
Rafe seemed to understand enough.
âItâs not a choice where I wake up and decide to have an eating disorder.â
âI get that.â
You looked at him.
âYou didnât before.â
His face tightened.
âNo.â
âYou told me to just eat if I was hungry.â
âI was an asshole.â
You almost smiled.
âYes.â
âStill am, probably.â
âDefinitely.â
He nodded once.
âFair.â
You looked down at your hands again.
âI donât want you to fix it.â
âIâm not gonna.â
âI just want you to understand that when Iâm having a bad day, telling me to just eat or stop being sad doesnât help.â
Rafe was quiet.
He looked down at the table, his fingers tapping once against the surface before going still.
Then he rubbed the back of his neck.
âIâm sorry.â
You blinked.
âWhat?â
âIâm sorry.â
His voice was quieter now.
âFor what I said in that first letter.â
You stared at him.
He looked uncomfortable.
Not defensive.
Not angry.
Just guilty.
âI didnât understand it,â he admitted. âI thought I did. I didnât.â
You swallowed.
âItâs okay.â
âNo, it wasnât.â
You didnât answer.
He rubbed the back of his neck again.
âI was a dick.â
âYou were.â
He gave you a look.
You shrugged.
âYou were.â
âYeah.â
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
âStill sorry.â
You nodded.
âThank you.â
He leaned back.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, apparently deciding that the conversation had become far too sincere for his liking, Rafe suddenly flexed his arm.
You stared at him.
âWhat are you doing?â
He flexed again.
âNothing.â
âYouâre literally flexing.â
âNo, Iâm not.â
âYou are.â
He glanced down at his own arm as though heâd only just noticed what it was doing.
âHuh.â
You squinted at him.
âWhy?â
âWhy what?â
âWhy are you flexing?â
âIâm not.â
âYouâve done it three times.â
He shrugged.
âMaybe Iâve been working out.â
You stared at him.
âOkay?â
âJust saying.â
âCongratulations?â
His mouth twitched.
âYou think theyâre bigger?â
You blinked.
âAre you seriously asking me to evaluate your muscles right now?â
âNo.â
âBecause it really sounds like you are.â
âIâm not.â
âYou absolutely are.â
He flexed again.
You covered your face with one hand.
âOh my God.â
He laughed.
âWhat?â
âYou are acting like a high school boy.â
âMaybe I just wanted you to notice.â
You lowered your hand.
âNotice what?â
He flexed his arm again.
You stared at him for a long second.
Then shook your head.
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âDidnât say I wasnât.â
âYou were being all serious five minutes ago.â
âPeople can be serious and have muscles.â
âApparently.â
He grinned.
You couldnât help laughing.
And that was how the first visit went.
Not dramatic.
Not life-changing.
Just two people talking.
You told him about Clementine. He told you about the prisonâs terrible coffee. You explained something heâd misunderstood, and he apologized. Then, because apparently he couldnât tolerate sincerity for more than five consecutive minutes, he started flexing his arms like an obnoxious teenage boy.
It was oddly comforting.
You left the visitation room with a strange feeling in your chest.
Not happiness exactly.
Something softer.
You hadnât forgotten the things you struggled with.
You hadnât magically become okay.
Rafe hadnât become a different person, either.
He was still rough around the edges. Still foul-mouthed. Still stubborn. Still incarcerated for a crime he insisted had been justified.
But now he had a face.
A voice.
A laugh.
A ridiculous habit of flexing whenever he didnât know what to do with himself.
And when you looked back before leaving, he was still watching you.
He lifted two fingers in a lazy wave.
âSee you next time, pretty little birdy.â
You stopped.
Turned around.
Pointed at him.
âDonât call me that.â
He grinned.
âSure thing.â
You narrowed your eyes.
âRafe.â
âWhat?â
âYouâre doing it on purpose now.â
âMaybe.â
You shook your head.
And walked away smiling.
tags: @rafesdaydream @kooksandpearls @outersbanksgirly @tylerjeauxburreaux9 @pr3ttypriscilla @angel06babysworld @rafecameronnngf @kissmeuntil @rafeysfawn
