Chapter Text
To a stranger,
I told the stars about you. There is a quietness in the way the world seems to listen. The way you listen. Write to me like you're talking to your dearest friend, stranger. I don't care who you are. Tell me your darkest secrets. Let me visit your mind. It's probably beautiful—like you, like everyone. I just need you to be real. Not a fantasy. Not a dream. Right now, you feel real. So real. Please be, stranger. But it is only right that you know I'm real first. You can call me Clay. My favourite colour is whatever yours is. Whatever you fancy, it will be mine. The flowers I love dearly are red roses. I grow them in my garden. They smell heavenly—it simply can not be described. You can't be described either. I like those types of people. Those who are a mystery. I would usually spend the days sword fighting, oil painting—and now writing to you. They make us feel like we must write to people we know. I'm tired of that. I hope you are too, stranger.
From Clay.
*
Dearest Clay,
My name is George. I do not have to be a stranger to you anymore. And your letter made me smile so much! I was baking bread in the kitchen when my father alerted me about the mail. I was bewildered, to say the least; we never receive mail. I live in a cottage and if we do get letters, it's from the kingdom. My house is in a meadow, somewhere far away. It's perfect for curling around and reading poetry in a field of flowers. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you'd catch the perfect eclipse of the sun behind the clouds as you sit. It's to die for; the way the orange dawn still glows but allows the gloom to take over. But mostly, I enjoy it because grey doesn't confuse me. I'm colourblind—odd, I know. But it's the only colour that doesn't really change. And yet my favourite color is blue. The blue in the lake as it breaks through the morning fog. The blue in a field of wildflowers, the silken mist, the ocean. The blue in the way you write. Figuratively, of course. I hope I can make you happy, Clay. I hope my letters to you can make you smile.
Write to me anytime.
George.
*
To George,
Your cottage sounds breathtaking. Surrounded by wildflowers and lakes and mist. You're making me swoon for nothing but a location. What type of bread were you baking? I want the recipe. Also, I was raking my mind for a nickname for you. Georgie? Dwelled on it for a while, but no. Gogy? Never; it just doesn't stick. Gerb? Or Gerbie? Cute. I like it. It's named after the flower Gerbera, and they are extra vibrant in spite of you being colorblind. I know you'll love it, Gerb. I have to rush now; sword training and all. Get back to me soon. P.S. Below is a labeled diagram of a Gerbera I ripped out from a textbook somewhere. It will be a constant reminder of your adorable nickname.
Love ya, too!
From Clay.
*
Dearest Clay,
I hate you already. Gerbie? Please. Have mercy on my poor, poor soul. Oh and, I had the shock of my life yesterday. My dad came home from work — he's a florist — and he brought home some clay sculptures he found. Clay sculptures, Clay! They're perched atop my desk, as I write. They remind of you. It's not just your name, though it is a contributing factor—they just feel so moulded. Stuck. I know you're trapped, wherever you are. I'd free you if I could. And the clay sculpture was of a bird—two birds actually. But my favourite sculpture was of a mushroom! How adorable is that? Way more adorable than that distasteful nickname you gave me. Gerb? Bleh. I've been meaning to write to you about something important, Clay. I can't help but feel like we live in different worlds. Cheesy, I know—bare with me. It's like we're not just separated by two kingdoms. And yet you're already my best friend and I've never even held your hand. I just really wish to meet you—I suppose that's what I'm implying.
P.S. Before I forget; I attached a written recipe of the bread you asked for.
Follow the instructions carefully.
George.
*
To Gerb (or George, as you painfully prefer),
You're right. Maybe it feels like we live in two different worlds. But we see the same moon, Gerbie. We see the same sun. Hell, we see the same wax seal on every envelope I send. And I feel you, through these letters, George. I know your voice. It's like your handwriting—soft, quiet, but wild and raw and unapologetic. And I know your speech patterns. You press your lips together after voicing a sentence, just like how you pause to think and ink blots form. I know you George. I feel you. Your emotions, your eyes, your smile—it's all here. But, in some inexplicable way, you're not. I want a material part of you with me. Send me anything, Gerbie. And do not be surprised if you find a bundle of things outside your cottage tomorrow. We'll meet soon. Just not now. And I promise, I promise.
P.S. I baked the bread! Kind of chewy in the middle—undercooked, I suppose. Is it bad that it tastes good?
From Clay.