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“A letter.”
Who could be writing such a thing at such a time. The sky was tinted with darkness unchallenged, it’s darkness, a defining trait of the midnight sky.
Most would not even be awake at this time, most would be asleep, sleeping peacefully and dreaming of things that were beyond reality. What could be of such importance to forsake such a thing?
The lights that would usually be on during daytime were off. And as the contrast of the night sky and the moon. The same could be said for the lights inside Sans’ room, they were bright and clear like how a star would shine in the vacuum of space. Eternally shining, eternally bringing light to those who could notice.
Nobody would have expected the skeleton monster to be awake at such a time, of course. His character trait of being a lazybones who slept days like a simple snap of a finger strongly opposing the current situation. And yet he was.
Against all sense of logic, he was awake and busy doing something.
On further inspection, it seemed that Sans was writing a letter. A letter to whom, you might ask? Well, it was a letter to Frisk.
You see, Sans and Frisk were a pair. A pair of friends, a pair of best friends. And the next step to their relationship was one that was extremely cliche to say the least.
But it was one Sans wanted. No, not just want. No, he yearned for it. Yearned for it like how one would yearn for water in a desert, or sunlight in the dark.
He needed it.
His feelings had been bottled up for too long, and the dam was about to burst. And for the first time, he had admitted something his soul knew before everything. He loved Frisk. Not in a friend way, no, in a romantic way.
The savior of the Underground and albeit unknowingly him in particular from the eternal loop of life he had been forsaken to.
He wasn’t blind enough that he had believed that he had been the only one who had been saved by Frisk’s journey. But for him, it made him love her even more.
And while Sans was a scientist at heart from a time that had long since been forgotten. A statement that was more true then most would first realize.
Knowing the effects of love on a soul level, and falling for it nevertheless made his love even stronger. He knew what love was. For a human, it was a bunch of chemicals and hormones. And for a monster, the soul sent out pulses similar to a human’s processes.
Sans wrote with his hand, an especially rare form of letter writing in a time of computers and technology. As a scientist he had used it in his day to day life, but he was airing out his heart and he had wanted to put a personal touch to it. It was special to him and he had written with all his soul.
A wording a monster did not take lightly. Monsters praised their souls like a deity. Their connection to them was magical, and it’s powers that they were granted use of was truly a beauty in itself.
Beside the skeleton monster was a flower that he was planning to package with the letter.
“A flower.”
Not just any kind of flower. It was a special kind that symbolized what Frisk was to Sans.
What flower, might you ask?
It was a Hydrangeas. A flower that symbolizes gratitude, grace and beauty. A beautiful flower that had a beautiful bluish color. Which also incidentally was the color of Sans’ magic. It showed how much thought Sans had put in his letter.
He wrote diligently, writing extravagant pieces and letters using his advanced vocabulary that he had learned when he had been younger, and his explorations into the beauty of the world were more innocent, less cynical.
Less truthful, as his adventures had driven him to his oddly calculating nature as he flourished into his previous scientist role.
The cynicism flourished as he learned more horrors and more terrible things about the world. And while he had hidden it with a face or mask (it didn’t matter anymore, both answers were practically the same by now) of levity and laughter. Jokes and puns. That part of him never died. No matter how he’d try to hide it.
He was a liar, through and through.
His words, his thoughts, represented nothing of his true self as the revealing of his soul through the letter he had been writing proceeded.
Devolving and self-loathing thoughts started eating at Sans as his soul became more exposed, more connected to the outside world through his writing.
And one thought stood out in his lies of self, even to himself. How could she love someone she doesn’t even truly know?
...
That thought.
He wrote, seemingly unphased..
He was phased. He was lying once more to himself.
That side, that him he had tried to kill. Persevered.
It never truly died..
The side that Flowey tried to kill and morphed into something worse. The side that Sans later attempted to hide. Was it him, truthfully? Or was it someone that was long dead, and his remains a mark on what Sans now was.
Who was he, really?
Who was this skeleton who hid under masks? Was he the mask, after wearing it for so long? Or was he the one under the mask, laid intact after so many years, or eons counting resets (he couldn’t tell anymore).
And as these thoughts devolved worse and worse into a typhoon, a hurricane of self-loathing.
One thought, might it be from the mask, or from the one under the mask resonated. One thought that might be true or false.
It stood as a mark of hatred. Of love? Love of Frisk, and hatred for himself?
And so, the letter he had written, the numerous revisions, the drafts, they were thrown away. Left in a garbage bin to rot.
"“I’ll write it later,” he said while doing it. His thoughts devolved into something he could no longer handle.
The bed looked particularly lovely to sleep in. His escape to a land where even a nightmare would be better than reality itself.
So as he smiled like a liar once more, a smile indistinguishable to his actual smile.
Because, perhaps they were one and the same now. No one truly knew. Not the one writing this story, this journey into the mind of one broken.
Not the skeleton monster either.
No one truly knew.
...
He wasn’t going to write the letter later, it was just a false comfort.
He knew that.
And as he went to sleep, the scars of the past truly shining. Like how a broken glass reflects light clearly, shouting it’s pain and shattering through the waves of light.
A letter. A flower. A lie.
You might expect the letter to be the lie. Yet it was more truthful than the lie itself.
Because the lie was the skeleton.
The flower sat there. Abandoned, discarded. Same as the letter.
The gratitude was unpaid.
Perhaps, one day, one second, he might leave the shell of his cowardice and send the beautiful letter he had created.
But that day was not today.
Nor would it be tomorrow. Because unless something, some twist of fate would push it. Nothing would happen.
Frisk didn’t truly save Sans.
He was saved from more wounds. But the scar was already there. And while scars fade after a long time.
Let us both hope that it is not too late for this love to kindle. To light up and shine like fire. And die slowly and surely through time.
Because if time was the wood. The wood is running out, and soon the fire will have no fuel to light.
And this love that we have all been following would stay unreciprocated.
What is the ending of this story? It’s yours to decide, and mine to tell. Good night, Sans.
This story might end on a sad note, but let us hope your readers provide you with mercy.
Good night, Sans. Good night, world.
And let us hope the morning provides you with mercy.