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CRIMINAL!RAFE x MELANCHOLY!READER

♡CW: Depression, ED/bulimia, self-harm references, incarceration, manslaughter, trauma, attempted assault (backstory), profanity, and heavy angst. The logistics abt like jail aren’t accurate. All characters are adults. If you don’t like, don’t read pls!!

♡ masterlist ♡

a/n: it’s finally out after two days😭😭I’ve been really mentally exhausted!

You hadn’t really known what you were expecting when you signed up for the church’s 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.

You’d almost laughed when you read it. You didn’t feel particularly qualified to be anybody’s friend.

You were twenty-five years old and tired in a way that sleep didn’t 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 weren’t 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 didn’t 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 other’s life.

You appreciated that.

You didn’t want to change anybody’s life.

You just wanted somebody to talk to.

So you made a package.

Not anything impressive.

A homemade batch of Boy Bait, because you’d 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 you’d joined the church’s 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 you’d recently gotten obsessed with a television show and had watched three seasons in four days.

You told him you didn’t know what you were supposed to say to someone in prison.

Then you wrote, “I guess I just wanted to talk to somebody who’s going through something different. I’m tired of sitting alone with my own head all the time.”

You stared at that sentence for a long time.

Then you folded the letter.

You put it in the envelope.

And mailed it.

You didn’t expect an answer.

At least, you told yourself you didn’t.

Three weeks later, one appeared.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

“You sent me a fucking cookie.”

That was how Rafe Cameron’s first letter began.

Not Hello.

Not Dear—

Not even your name.

“You 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. Don’t 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 don’t know why the fuck you thought telling some stranger in prison about your depression was a good idea. I’m not a therapist. I don’t know anything about that shit. Everybody’s depressed. Everybody’s got problems. Doesn’t mean you gotta make a whole fucking personality out of it. And the eating thing? Bulimia, right? That’s what you said. Look, I’m gonna be straight with you. I don’t get it. If you’re hungry, eat. If you’re not, don’t. Seems simple enough to me. I don’t know why people make everything so complicated. You said you wanted to talk to somebody who’s going through more than depression. Well, congratulations. I’m in prison. Thirteen years. You wanted perspective? There you go. I don’t get to walk outside whenever I want. I don’t get to see my family whenever I want. I don’t get to fuck my girl back home, not like she’d wanna see me anyway. I don’t get to decide what I eat or where I sleep or who I spend my time around. So forgive me if I don’t have a lot of sympathy for somebody who’s sad in an apartment with a cat and all the bullshit I’m missing.”

You stared at the sentence until the words blurred and wiped your cheek. You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

“And before you ask, yeah, I know what I did. Manslaughter. That’s what the court called it. I don’t 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 wasn’t 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. Don’t take that the wrong way. Just don’t 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.”

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 he’d called you weak, but because he’d been rude. It was because he’d taken something you’d been ashamed of and made it sound stupid.

Something you’d 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 didn’t 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.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

“I cried when I read your letter.”

You stared at the sentence.

It felt humiliating to admit.

“I wasn’t going to tell you that. I thought it would make me look pathetic. But you said you wanted me to be honest, so I’m being honest. You were right about one thing. You aren’t my therapist. I wasn’t asking you to be. I wasn’t expecting you to fix me. I probably should’ve explained that better. But you were wrong about the other stuff. Depression isn’t just being sad. I know everybody has bad days. I know everybody has problems. That’s not what I’m talking about. And bulimia isn’t me deciding whether I’m hungry. If it were that easy, I wouldn’t have spent so much time wishing it was that easy. I’m not telling you this because I want sympathy. I’m telling you because you said you didn’t understand it, and I thought maybe you might want to. And I’m not going to apologize for being sad in an apartment with a cat. My cat is very good company, she cares. I’m sorry about your mother. I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t there. I don’t know whether the court was right or whether you were right. I don’t think I can decide that from one paragraph on a piece of paper. But I know what it’s like to lose somebody, and I’m sorry she’s gone. I also don’t think you’re some misunderstood hero. You don’t 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 didn’t want an inspirational prison story. Good. I don’t want one either. I don’t need you to become a better person for me. I don’t need you to tell me everything happens for a reason. I don’t need you to tell me I’m beautiful or strong or that everything will get better eventually. I just want somebody to write to. You don’t have to understand my depression. You don’t 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 I’m able. But I’m not sending you two, never two. You’ll get too comfy.”

You folded the letter.

Before sealing the envelope, you unfolded the paper and wrote one more thing..

“P.S. My cat says she doesn’t like you either.”

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Rafe’s second letter came faster.

Two weeks.

You knew the handwriting before you even opened it.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

“Your 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, don’t worry I told the guy no) I told him that’s probably why you like her. And don’t get smart about the cookie. You said you’d send another one. I’m holding you to that. I want two. I didn’t mean to make you cry. I know that probably doesn’t mean shit coming from me after what I wrote. But I didn’t. I was pissed off. I get pissed off a lot. Been here long enough that sometimes I don’t know what else to do with it. Doesn’t excuse being an asshole. I still don’t understand the eating thing. Probably never will. Why’d 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 don’t 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 you’re still here. That’s probably enough depressing shit for one letter. Tell me about your cat.”

You laughed softly.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like crying afterward. You pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward yourself and started writing.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

The next letter took you four days to finish. Not because you didn’t know what to say. But, somehow, you had too much to say.

Rafe had asked about your cat.

That shouldn’t 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.

“Dear Rafe,

You’re an asshole, You asked about my cat, so I suppose I’m obligated to tell you about her. Her name is Clementine. She hates everyone except me, and I’m 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 don’t think it was an accident. You’d probably like her. She’s 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 don’t know. I’ve never been in prison. But I think I’ve gotten used to some things too. I’ve gotten used to waking up tired. I’ve gotten used to pretending I’m okay when somebody asks. I’ve gotten used to cancelling plans because I don’t feel like leaving my apartment. I’ve gotten used to looking at food and having an entire argument with myself about it. I’ve gotten used to feeling guilty for things I shouldn’t feel guilty for. I think I’ve gotten used to being afraid of my own brain.”

Your eyes stung.

“Sometimes when things get really bad, I don’t trust myself very much. I don’t want to get into details, because I don’t think that’s helpful for either of us. But I’ve had periods where I’ve hurt myself because I didn’t know what else to do with everything I was feeling. I’m telling you because you said thirteen years makes you understand what it feels like to wake up and remember you’re still there. I know that’s not the same thing. I’m not pretending it is. But I understood what you meant.”

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.

“Seriously?”

She blinked.

You sighed.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

She walked away.

“Anyway. That’s enough emotional oversharing for one letter..Tell me something about you instead. What were you like before prison? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. And don’t say ‘an asshole.’ I already know that.”

∘°∘♡∘°∘

Rafe’s response arrived eleven days later.

You’d were sitting on the floor when you opened it while Clementine was asleep beside your thigh.

The envelope was heavier than usual.

“First of all, Clementine sounds like a bitch. Second, you asked what I was like before this place. That’s not a short answer. I was spoiled. That’s 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 I’ve seen people live in here. My family had money. My father had money. Everybody knew my last name. I wasn’t happy, though. People always think money means you’re happy. It doesn’t. My family was fucked up long before I ever got here. My mother was the only person who really knew me. She wasn’t perfect. Neither was I. But she was my mother. The guy I killed wasn’t some random innocent guy walking down the street. He was hurting her. I saw it happen. I don’t care what the court says. I don’t care what some lawyer says. I know what I saw. I know you said you don’t know if I was right or wrong. That’s probably the smartest thing you’ve said so far. Because you weren’t there, but I was. And sometimes I wonder if that’s the worst part. Because everybody wants you to feel something simple. Guilty. Innocent. Sorry. Angry. Whatever. They want a clean answer. I don’t have one. I don’t regret protecting my mother. I regret that she died anyway. I don’t talk about her much. So congratulations, you got me to talk about my mother in a letter to a stranger—don’t think I’m ignoring the other thing you told me. The self-harm shit. I don’t know what to say to that. Actually, that’s a lie. I know what to say. Don’t fucking do it. I don’t know what your life is like. I don’t know what your head sounds like when you’re alone. But I know what it feels like to have something happen that you can’t take back. Don’t give yourself another thing you can’t take back. And I’m not saying that because I’m some wise prison guy. I’m saying it because I don’t want to read one day that you’re gone. That would piss me off. As for the depression and eating stuff, I’m still probably going to say dumb shit. I’m not pretending I understand it now. But I’ll stop telling you it’s easy. Fair? Also, I’m not apologizing to your cat. Send another cookie.”

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 you’d already read them.

Eventually, you folded it carefully along the existing creases.

You didn’t 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 you’d 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 you’d 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 you’d 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.

“You got me to laugh twice in one letter, which I think means you’re obligated to keep writing to me. Also, Clementine would like it formally stated that she doesn’t care about your opinion. Thank you for what you said about the other stuff. I don’t really know what else to say about it. I’m 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.

“I’m not asking you to keep me safe. That’s not your responsibility. But it helped hearing somebody say they didn’t want me to disappear. I don’t think anybody really says things like that to me. Anyway, I made more Boy Bait. I’m sending two cookies this time. Don’t get used to it.”

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.

“Proof that she’s an asshole. Only sometime”

You sealed everything before you could change your mind.

Then you mailed it.

By the time Rafe received it, he’d already started waiting for your letters.

He wouldn’t have admitted that.

Not to you.

Not to his cellmate.

Not even to himself, if he’d 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 hadn’t become easier with time.

Neither had the memory of being twenty-two.

Sometimes it came back with an almost painful clarity—the person he’d 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 didn’t annoy him.

Not really.

Your letters were strange.

You didn’t treat him like a monster.

You didn’t treat him like some tragic victim, either.

You didn’t ask invasive questions about his crime or expect him to explain every ugly part of his past. You didn’t preach at him. You didn’t tell him that everything happened for a reason.

You certainly didn’t tell him that God had some grand plan for his life.

You didn’t 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 you’d had a bad day.

Sometimes you wrote about things that were difficult, and sometimes you spent three pages talking about absolutely nothing.

Once, you’d 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 he’d read it.

Actually laughed.

It had caught him so off guard that he’d had to read the paragraph twice.

His cellmate had looked over at him like he’d finally lost his mind.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

His cellmate glanced at the letter in Rafe’s hands.

“You laughing at a letter?”

Rafe folded the page immediately.

“Mind your business.”

A snort came from the other side of the room.

“You got a girlfriend?”

Rafe’s expression hardened.

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.

His cellmate raised an eyebrow but, mercifully, didn’t push.

Rafe ignored him.

Instead, he looked down at the photograph you’d sent.

Clementine.

She looked exactly as unpleasant as you’d described.

Somehow, that made the picture better.

He turned it over once in his hands, studying the ridiculous little photograph with an expression he would’ve denied having if anyone had pointed it out.

Then he smiled.

Just slightly.

He hated that.

He hated how easily you’d 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 didn’t 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 you’d 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 didn’t require you to want anything.

Rafe had gotten very good at not wanting things.

He’d 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 didn’t know what to do with that.

It would’ve 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 would’ve made sense.

Instead, you simply kept writing.

And Rafe had spent thirteen years learning how to live without caring.

You were making that harder.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

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:

“Rafe,”

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.

“I’m mad at you.”

Rafe sat back.

Oh.

Interesting.

He read the next line.

“Not because of anything you said this time.”

That only made him more curious.

“Because you were right about one thing. I don’t think I realized how much I was waiting for your letters until yesterday when there wasn’t one.”

The corner of Rafe’s mouth twitched.

“I checked the mailbox three times.”

He laughed.

Quietly, almost under his breath.

“This is embarrassing.”

He could practically hear your voice when he read it.

Then:

“I think you’re becoming my friend.”

His smile disappeared.

Rafe read the sentence again.

Then again.

Friend.

The word sat strangely in his head.

He hadn’t had one of those in a long time.

Not really.

There were people he knew. People he’d 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.

“I don’t know if you’re comfortable with that. If you’re not, you can tell me.”

His thumb rested against the edge of the paper.

Then:

“But I like writing to you.”

Rafe stared at the sentence.

There was another paragraph.

“You’re rude. You’re stubborn. You’re occasionally an asshole. You’re also funny, even though I don’t think you’re trying to be. And you actually listened when I told you something mattered to me, even if you didn’t understand it.”

He swallowed.

“I think that’s worth something.”

For a moment, he didn’t move.

His thumb ran slowly along the edge of the paper, smoothing down a corner that didn’t actually need smoothing.

He wasn’t 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.

“Anyway, I’m going to stop being sentimental now because I already regret writing this.”

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 you’d said too much and immediately wishing you could take half of it back.

Then he read the final question.

“Tell me something you miss.”

Rafe stared at it for a long time.

There were a thousand answers.

His mother’s 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 could’ve filled the entire page.

Maybe several.

But he couldn’t 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:

“I miss my mother’s cooking.”

He stopped.

The sentence looked far more honest sitting there in his own handwriting than it had sounded in his head.

He kept going.

“Not even anything fancy. She used to make this chicken dish. I don’t remember what she called it. Probably had some stupid French name. I just remember the smell.”

His pen slowed.

“I miss hearing her in the kitchen.”

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 wasn’t necessarily some huge, dramatic memory.

Sometimes it was just a kitchen.

A smell.

His mother’s voice somewhere in the next room.

He looked away for a moment before forcing himself to continue.

“I miss being twenty-two.”

That one was harder.

He sat there with the pen hovering over the paper.

Then he wrote:

“I thought I had forever.”

Rafe looked toward the narrow window.

There wasn’t much to see.

There rarely was.

Just another reminder that the world continued beyond the walls without him.

He lowered his eyes again.

“I think everybody thinks that when they’re young.”

He paused.

Then continued.

“You don’t understand that your life can split in half in one afternoon.”

His jaw tightened.

“One minute you’re one person. Then something happens and you’re somebody else forever.”

He didn’t write about the gun.

He didn’t write about the body.

He didn’t write about the courtroom.

He didn’t need to.

You hadn’t asked him to explain the worst day of his life.

You’d only asked what he missed.

So he gave you the pieces he could.

“I miss not knowing what prison smells like.”

Rafe actually laughed at that one.

It was easier to make a joke out of it.

He added:

“You probably don’t want to hear about that.”

Then, after a moment:

“I miss the ocean.”

That was easier.

He could almost feel it when he wrote the words.

“I miss driving.”

Another.

“I miss being able to decide where I was going.”

His pen stopped.

He looked back at your letter.

I think you’re becoming my friend.

The sentence was still there.

Still strange.

Still sitting somewhere inside his chest where he wasn’t used to feeling anything anymore.

He picked up the pen again.

“I don’t know if I’m good at being somebody’s friend anymore.”

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.

“I don’t know if I’m good at being somebody’s friend.”

Better.

More honest.

Then:

“But I like your letters.”

Rafe frowned.

Too vulnerable.

His pen hovered over the sentence.

He almost crossed it out.

Almost.

He didn’t.

Instead, he continued.

“So I guess you can keep writing.”

He hesitated.

Then, after a moment:

“And I’ll keep answering.”

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.

He’d spent years making sure he didn’t need much from anybody. He’d 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.

“Tell Clementine she owes me a cookie.”

He folded the letter carefully.

For once, when the door closed behind him, he didn’t feel quite so angry.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

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 hadn’t understood it the first time, but because something about the way he’d 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 didn’t 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 they’d 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 Cameron’s life that couldn’t be condensed into a few paragraphs on a form.

But you didn’t need to know everything.

For the first time, Rafe Cameron stopped being the prisoner they’d assigned you.

He was just Rafe.

Thirty-five years old. Thirteen years into a sentence he’d spent more than a decade learning how to live inside. Still angry about things he couldn’t 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 didn’t 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 hadn’t 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 couldn’t quite explain why you felt so low. There were still things you didn’t 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.

You’d 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. You’d tell yourself you didn’t care either way, and then you’d notice yourself checking again ten minutes later.

Sometimes the letters were important.

Sometimes they weren’t.

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 he’d been reading, occasionally getting so invested in explaining one that you’d forget for a moment where the letter had come from.

You told him when you’d 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 weren’t felt like too much work.

Eventually, though, you started telling him when the answer was no.

And Rafe stopped trying to fix it.

He didn’t send you paragraphs about how everything would be okay. He didn’t pretend he had some perfect answer. He didn’t 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? I’m here.

And somehow, that was better.

Because neither of you needed to be fixed.

Maybe that was the thing you’d both been getting wrong.

You weren’t a project for him, and he wasn’t a project for you. Neither of you could undo what had happened before the letters started. You couldn’t reach through the paper and change thirteen years of his life, and he couldn’t 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.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

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 hadn’t tried to convince you or make it sound like some obligation you’d taken on when you joined the correspondence program. She’d simply mentioned it one afternoon in that careful, almost conversational tone people used when they knew they were asking something that might be difficult.

“He asked if you’d ever consider an in-person visit.”

You’d stared at her.

Then you’d spent approximately three days pretending you hadn’t heard her.

Because you’d never met Rafe.

Not really.

You knew his handwriting better than his face. You knew he hated the prison coffee, that he missed his mother’s cooking, and that he’d 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 he’d 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 he’d 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 you’d 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 weren’t 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 you’d seen photographs.

You hadn’t.

But because you’d 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 you’d pictured.

Broader, too.

There was something imposing about him even in prison clothes, something rough around the edges that the letters hadn’t 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.

“Well, fuck.”

Your eyebrows lifted.

He started walking toward you.

“You’re real.”

You blinked.

“Last time I checked.”

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.

“Pretty little birdy.”

Your smile vanished.

“I’m sorry?”

He stopped.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Your brow furrowed.

“Did you just call me a bird?”

Rafe’s eyebrows shot up.

“No.”

“You literally did.”

“I said pretty little birdy.”

“That’s still a bird.”

For a second, he looked genuinely confused.

Then he rubbed his jaw.

“I meant it affectionate.”

You crossed your arms.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a bird.”

“I know you’re not a fucking bird.”

“Then why did you call me one?”

He stared at you like he was trying to figure out how the conversation had somehow gotten away from him.

Then he sighed.

“Jesus Christ.”

Your eyebrows furrowed again.

He noticed.

“You do that every time I swear.”

“Because you swear every thirty seconds.”

“I do not.”

“You just did.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then pointed at you.

“See? That’s why I like you.”

You blinked.

He sat down across from you.

“And I’m not calling you a bird in some misogynistic way,” he added. “I’m not saying you’re delicate or helpless or whatever the fuck. I mean it like—”

He gestured vaguely, clearly struggling to explain something that had sounded much simpler in his head.

“Like you’re… small.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“That isn’t helping.”

“Pretty.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I mean you’re pretty.”

Your face warmed.

Rafe seemed to realize what he’d said at exactly the same time you did.

He leaned back in his chair.

“That’s what I meant.”

You looked down at your hands.

“Oh.”

“Pretty little birdy,” he repeated, quieter this time. “Affectionate. That’s all.”

You hesitated.

Then sighed.

“Fine.”

His grin returned immediately.

“Good.”

“But I still don’t like it.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I absolutely will not.”

“We’ll see.”

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 she’d knocked over another cup of coffee.

“She’s got something against coffee,” you said.

Rafe shook his head.

“She’s got something against you having joy.”

You frowned.

“Why are you always insulting my cat?”

“Because she’s not here to defend herself.”

“She’s a sweet girl.”

“She’s a criminal.”

You stared at him.

“You’re literally in prison.”

There was a beat of silence.

Rafe looked at you.

Then he laughed so hard he had to turn his head away.

“Okay,” he said, still laughing. “That was good.”

You smiled.

“I’ve been saving that one.”

“I can tell.”

The conversation became easier after that.

He asked about your work, and you complained about your boss. He listened with the same attention he’d given your letters, occasionally making some dry comment that made you laugh despite yourself.

He asked whether you’d made more Boy Bait.

You told him yes.

He nodded approvingly.

“Good.”

You looked at him.

“You sound like you’ve been waiting.”

“I have.”

Your eyebrows rose.

“You could’ve just said you missed my letters.”

“I did not say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did.”

He shook his head.

“You talk too much.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Because it’s still true.”

You smiled.

“You like it.”

He looked at you for a second.

Then shrugged.

“Maybe.”

You weren’t 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 you’d already gotten to know.

Eventually, Rafe leaned forward.

“So.”

You looked up.

“So?”

“You gonna tell me what you actually meant in those letters?”

Your brow furrowed.

“About what?”

“Your depression.”

You went still.

“And the bulimia.”

Your fingers tightened together.

Rafe noticed immediately.

His expression changed.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“I know.”

“You said you wanted me to understand.”

“I did.”

“So explain it.”

You took a slow breath.

You weren’t sure how to explain something that had taken you years to understand yourself. There wasn’t 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.

“Depression isn’t just being sad,” you began.

Rafe nodded.

You continued.

“It’s like… everything becomes harder. Getting out of bed. Taking a shower. Answering messages. Eating. Sleeping. Sometimes things that used to make me happy just don’t.”

He didn’t interrupt.

That was the first thing you noticed.

He simply listened.

“It isn’t always crying, either,” you said. “Sometimes I don’t feel anything. I can be surrounded by people and feel completely disconnected from them.”

Rafe’s expression had gone serious.

You looked down.

“And bulimia is… complicated.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not just eating too much.”

“I know.”

You gave him a look.

He immediately raised his hands.

“I’m listening.”

You continued.

“It’s tied to everything else. Shame. Anxiety. Feeling like I need control. Sometimes I’ll eat because I’m overwhelmed or upset, and then I feel horrible about it. And then I try to compensate for it.”

You didn’t give details.

You didn’t need to.

Rafe seemed to understand enough.

“It’s not a choice where I wake up and decide to have an eating disorder.”

“I get that.”

You looked at him.

“You didn’t before.”

His face tightened.

“No.”

“You told me to just eat if I was hungry.”

“I was an asshole.”

You almost smiled.

“Yes.”

“Still am, probably.”

“Definitely.”

He nodded once.

“Fair.”

You looked down at your hands again.

“I don’t want you to fix it.”

“I’m not gonna.”

“I just want you to understand that when I’m having a bad day, telling me to just eat or stop being sad doesn’t help.”

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.

“I’m sorry.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was quieter now.

“For what I said in that first letter.”

You stared at him.

He looked uncomfortable.

Not defensive.

Not angry.

Just guilty.

“I didn’t understand it,” he admitted. “I thought I did. I didn’t.”

You swallowed.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

You didn’t answer.

He rubbed the back of his neck again.

“I was a dick.”

“You were.”

He gave you a look.

You shrugged.

“You were.”

“Yeah.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Still sorry.”

You nodded.

“Thank you.”

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.

“What are you doing?”

He flexed again.

“Nothing.”

“You’re literally flexing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

He glanced down at his own arm as though he’d only just noticed what it was doing.

“Huh.”

You squinted at him.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you flexing?”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve done it three times.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe I’ve been working out.”

You stared at him.

“Okay?”

“Just saying.”

“Congratulations?”

His mouth twitched.

“You think they’re bigger?”

You blinked.

“Are you seriously asking me to evaluate your muscles right now?”

“No.”

“Because it really sounds like you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You absolutely are.”

He flexed again.

You covered your face with one hand.

“Oh my God.”

He laughed.

“What?”

“You are acting like a high school boy.”

“Maybe I just wanted you to notice.”

You lowered your hand.

“Notice what?”

He flexed his arm again.

You stared at him for a long second.

Then shook your head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t.”

“You were being all serious five minutes ago.”

“People can be serious and have muscles.”

“Apparently.”

He grinned.

You couldn’t 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 prison’s terrible coffee. You explained something he’d misunderstood, and he apologized. Then, because apparently he couldn’t 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 hadn’t forgotten the things you struggled with.

You hadn’t magically become okay.

Rafe hadn’t 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 didn’t 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.

“See you next time, pretty little birdy.”

You stopped.

Turned around.

Pointed at him.

“Don’t call me that.”

He grinned.

“Sure thing.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“Rafe.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it on purpose now.”

“Maybe.”

You shook your head.

And walked away smiling.

tags: @rafesdaydream @kooksandpearls @outersbanksgirly @tylerjeauxburreaux9 @pr3ttypriscilla @angel06babysworld @rafecameronnngf @kissmeuntil @rafeysfawn

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