Archive of Our Own ^beta

✉️ Letter #0

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: Whoever’s Out There

Hi.
Or hey. Or… whatever’s less awkward to open with when you’re writing a letter to literally no one. Yet.

I’m not sure why I signed up for this. It’s 2:17AM and I’m supposed to be studying for a midterm I already know I’m going to cry through. So. Naturally, I paid real money to write a stranger a letter. Because that’s a normal and cool thing to do.

So. Hello. I’m writing this with dangerously little sleep and a snack I will not name for fear of judgment. I don’t have anything deep or profound to say yet. Mostly, I just wanted to see what would happen if I reached out into the void and someone reached back.

I don’t really know what I’m looking for.
Not romance, probably. Not… all that.
I’m not even sure I believe in love the way I used to. It feels like something that happens to other people now, like a movie you watched too many times to think it’s real.

But I do think about connection.
Not the sweeping, dramatic kind—just the quiet kind. The kind that makes things feel a little less heavy for a second.
I guess that’s what I’m hoping for. That maybe someone will write back.
Even just once.

You don’t have to say anything deep. You could tell me your least favourite fruit and I’d probably still respond. (Mine is cantaloupe. It knows what it did.)

Thanks for reading.
If nothing else, you now know I hate melon and am chronically bad at pretending I don’t care.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(not expecting much. still hoping anyway.)

[Jisung’s Dorm Room | 9:34pm]

[Group Chat: Chaos Goblins 👹]

Felix🐥
bro. why was “Love Letters R Us” open on my laptop

Hyunjin💅
STOP

Jisung 🦝
OK. before anyone says anything rude
it was a JOKE
i just wanted to see what would happen

Hyunjin💅
what happened to simply watching thirst traps like a normal person

Felix🐥
be honest. did u really sign up as “quokkaboy_00”

Jisung 🦝
no comment.

Hyunjin💅
that means yes

Felix🐥
💌💦

Jisung 🦝
i hate this group chat

Felix🐥
ur going to fall in love with a man who owns a medieval sword

Hyunjin💅
no he’s going to fall in love with someone NORMAL and then it’s going to be awkward when they find his old tumblr

Jisung 🦝
i SWEAR if y’all don’t stop—

Jisung throws his phone across the bed and groans into his pillow.

It was supposed to be funny. Something chaotic to tell Felix and Hyunjin during late-night Discord calls.

But now that the envelope is actually here—neatly hand-addressed, thick with promise—he just… stares at it.

It’s not like he’s expecting anything. Not really. Just—

Just curiosity. That’s all.

He tears it open.

✉️ Letter #1

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy_00,

I’m going to be honest—this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done.

I wasn’t planning on replying to any of these. Most of them felt like bait for oversharing or secret dares, and the usernames gave me secondhand embarrassment (yours included, sorry). But.

Something about your letter stuck with me. Maybe it was the part where you admitted you weren’t even sure if you believed in love anymore, but still hoped someone would write you back.

That hit harder than I thought it would.

So. Here I am. Writing back.

This doesn’t have to be anything. It can be pen pals. It can be jokes. It can be complaining about the weather or your weird neighbour or whatever you want. I don’t really care what you write, as long as you’re honest.

I promise to do the same.

No photos. No names. No pressure.
Just… letters.

Talk soon?

—M

✉️ Letter #2

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

Okay. So.
Coming for my username in the first paragraph was bold. Borderline criminal, actually. “QuokkaBoy_00” is a sacred identity. A lifestyle. Possibly a cry for help. But mostly a lifestyle.

Anyway—hi.
I didn’t think anyone would actually respond to that letter.

I signed up on a whim. Mostly for the bit. I thought it’d be funny—send a letter into the void, maybe get something weird back, laugh about it with my friends. I didn’t think anyone would actually respond. At least not like you did.

But your letter surprised me. It was… sincere. Which is rare. And weirdly comforting. Like a warm drink in a chipped mug. Or that exact two seconds of quiet between late-night rain and early-morning birds.

You said honesty, so here’s mine:
I’m not great at this. I overthink. I ramble. I talk way too fast when I get excited. And I once tripped over my own shoelace on campus and told the girl who saw it happen that I was “conducting a gravity experiment.”

But I guess I’m hoping that if you wrote once, you might write again.

Even if you’re secretly someone named Greg with a thriving stamp collection and a side hustle selling essential oils. (I’d still write back, Greg. Don’t worry.)

As for me—I’m J.
I’m in my third year of uni, studying something impractical but beautiful. I write music when I can’t sleep. I carry extra socks everywhere because wet socks are an abomination. And I believe the best snacks are crunchy, salty, and stolen from a friend’s pantry.

Tell me something pointless about you.
Tell me the last thing that made you laugh out loud.
Or just… keep writing.

Thanks for the letter. Really.
It made something feel a little less heavy.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. half gremlin, full disaster, currently beefing with circadian rhythm)

P.S. Do you think there’s a version of love that lives best in letters? Or are we just romanticizing loneliness and calling it charm? (I say this while clutching your letter like a Victorian widow. So. Take that as you will.)

✉️ Letter #3

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy (I feel like we’re on nickname terms now),

The gravity experiment made me laugh. Like, actually laugh. Not just the polite nose-exhale people do when something’s mildly funny. It was a full laugh-snort situation, which is rare for me. Congratulations, you’ve cracked the code.

Also: “impractical but beautiful”? I respect that. The world needs more people who chase things just because they care, not because it makes sense. Even if it leads to debt, doubt, and instant noodles six nights a week. (We take our wins where we can.)

I liked your letter.
Didn’t expect to—but I did. A lot.

It’s strange. I didn’t sign up for this thinking I’d end up enjoying it. I just… wanted something quiet, I think. A reason to slow down. Some kind of connection that didn’t start with a profile picture and a curated playlist of personality traits.

You made it feel easy to write back.

So here’s something pointless, like you asked:
I always peel the sticker off fruit before I eat it, but I stick it to the underside of the nearest table or chair. It’s gross. I know. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break.
Also, I used to hum lullabies under my breath walking to class—not for anyone else, just to calm down. Some days, I still do.

And since you asked:

The last thing that made me laugh out loud was a pigeon on campus that walked face-first into the library’s glass door. The look it gave the window after? Pure betrayal. Like physics had personally wronged it. (He’s fine.)

Your sock thing is weirdly endearing. Your username is still cringey, but I’m adjusting to it.
I’ll keep writing, if you do.

—M

P.S. I think love might live best in letters. Or at least the version of us that knows how to listen without interrupting. That’s rare. And maybe worth romanticizing, even if it’s just a little bit lonely.
So keep writing, widow. I’ll keep replying.

✉️ Letter #4

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

Okay, first of all—
You called my username cringey. That’s actually so homophobic of you. What if QuokkaBoy_00 is the truest expression of who I am? What if I’m just a small, snack-seeking marsupial doing my best in a world built for taller mammals?

…Anyway. Hi.

This is probably going to sound weird (which is fine, because I’m already too far gone to salvage any dignity here), but your last letter? I kind of didn’t know how much I needed it. Like something gentle tapped me on the shoulder and went, Hey, you’re still allowed to feel things.

Which is dramatic. I know. But you said something about wanting a connection that wasn’t curated, and I haven’t stopped thinking about that. I feel that in my bones. Or maybe my spleen. Somewhere deep and squishy.

Also, I’m weirdly touched by your disgusting fruit sticker confession. It’s deeply unhinged. But like… the charming kind. The kind that makes me think, oh no, I’m going to end up liking this person, aren’t I?

Random thing about me: I used to make up fake commercials when I was little and perform them for my brother. Like—“Introducing the all-new Glow-in-the-Dark Toilet Paper! Finally, nighttime peeing made fashionable!”

He still brings it up. I will never know peace.

Also: I write lullabies sometimes. Not for anyone. Just… for when my brain won’t shut up. I never really show them to anyone. But it’s nice to know you hum yours when the world gets too loud.

You feel like someone who understands quiet.
That’s rare.

So yeah. I’ll keep writing.
You don’t have to say anything brilliant or deep. You can tell me what cereal you ate. You can tell me if you’ve ever cried at a movie trailer. I’ll still write back.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. professional oversharer, walking serotonin glitch, tragic extrovert in denial)

P.S. The idea of love that listens instead of rushes? That one got me.
I want that.
Even if it only lives in letters.

✉️ Letter #5

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy,

The glow-in-the-dark toilet paper commercial nearly ended me. I read that line with a mouthful of tea and now my keyboard smells like jasmine.
You’re chaotic in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It’s weirdly comforting.

I like how you write.
Not just what you say—how you say it. Like the words show up sideways, but still land exactly where they’re supposed to. You’re good at making things feel close, even from far away. I didn’t know I missed that until now.

Anyway. You said I could write about anything, so:
I don’t like cereal. Not really. It’s always soggy too fast.
But I do love bread. Just… in all forms.
I’ll go to the same bakery three times a week for this one rosemary focaccia that’s probably overpriced and definitely addictive. The girl at the counter doesn’t even ask for my order anymore.
I think I find comfort in things that stay the same.

You asked if I’ve ever cried at a movie trailer.
Not a trailer, but I cried the first time I watched My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday. Not at the end—though yeah, that got me too—but at the part where they’re walking in opposite timelines and still trying to meet in the middle.

It wasn’t even the words. Just that feeling of wanting to hold on to something that’s already halfway gone. Of knowing someone deeply, while they’re only just beginning to know you.

It hit harder than I expected. Maybe because I’ve felt like that before—out of sync with something I didn’t want to lose.

You write lullabies.
That doesn’t surprise me. You feel like someone who would leave light on in a room for someone else, even if they didn’t ask.
I like that about you.

—M

P.S. I don’t think I believe in fate. But I do believe in timing. And something about this feels… well-timed. Even if I don’t know what it is yet.

[Group Chat: Chaos Goblins 👹]

Jisung 🦝
ok be honest
if u were anonymously falling for someone via emotional handwritten letters
would it be cringe to send them a lullaby you wrote and never showed anyone ever
asking for a friend obviously

Felix🐥
what do u MEAN “anonymous”
u mean the love letters guy??
M???
the one you called “paper soulmate” while holding his last note to ur chest like a victorian widow

Hyunjin💅
send it
coward

Felix🐥
wait WAIT is it the one you wrote after ur 3am crywalk to the 7/11
with the kazoo solo in the bridge???
SEND IT

Jisung 🦝
U GUYS
i was trying to be subtle
this is why i don’t share thing

Hyunjin💅
no this is why u SHOULD
u’re a simp just lean in

Felix🐥
send the song, sung. he deserves to hear the soft inside of ur brain

Jisung 🦝:
brb setting myself on fire but like gently. with emotional kindling

💌 Letter #6

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

Okay. So.
Your last letter made me stare at the ceiling for an hour and then pace around like a ghost with too many emotions.

You said something about wanting to hold onto something that’s already halfway gone. And… yeah. That one cracked something open. In a good way, I think. Or at least in a true way.

I keep rereading that part.
The timing thing, too.
It made me want to give you something real. Which is terrifying.
So naturally, I’m going to pretend it’s not terrifying by making dumb jokes and hoping you don’t notice that I’m emotionally naked.

Ready?

[emotional nudity approaching in 3... 2...]

I wrote this lullaby a while ago and never showed it to anyone. It’s a weird little melody that came out of one of those nights where your brain is too loud and the dark feels too sharp. I wasn’t planning on sharing it. Like, ever.

But then you wrote about people who listen without interrupting.
And you felt like someone who would hear it the right way.

So here it is.
Lullaby included.
(Maybe skip if you’re allergic to feelings.)

Untitled (for now)

i left the light on
just in case
you came back late,
or forgot your name
or needed someone soft to say
it’s okay
it’s okay

the world can end in quiet ways—
in slow goodbyes and open stays
but i’ll stay
i’ll stay
even when the morning frays

and if you sleep
i’ll hold the sky
so all your stars don’t pass you by
and if you wake
and i’m still near
just know you’re safe
just know i’m here

I’m not saying it’s good.
But I mean every word.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. your local light-leaver, emotionally exposed and panicking slightly)

P.S. If you pretend you didn’t read the lullaby, that’s okay too. Just… maybe keep the part about the stars. That one feels like you.

💌 Letter #7

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy,

I didn’t skip the lullaby.
I read it slowly, then again, and then one more time with the kind of care usually reserved for something breakable.

You say things in ways I don’t know how to say back.
I think that’s why I keep writing. You say what I feel but haven’t been brave enough to admit.

The line about “the world ending in quiet ways”?
That one stayed with me.

There’s something about the way you write that feels… unguarded. Not naïve. Not careless. Just—open, in a way that’s rare. It makes me want to put my guard down too.

So here’s me trying:
There’s a light I keep on in my room. It’s small and dim and I always say it’s just for reading, but sometimes—especially on the nights where nothing in my head will settle—it just stays on. I think maybe I’ve been hoping someone would notice.
Even if it’s just in a letter.
Even if it’s just you.

You said the lullaby might be too much.
It wasn’t.
It felt like someone left a door open on purpose, just to let a little more warmth in.

Thank you for that.
I’m still here.
Please keep writing.

—M

P.S. I’ve never wanted to be the kind of person who needs someone else to fall asleep. But after your letter, I didn’t want to fall asleep alone.

[Jisung’s Dorm Room | 12:47 AM]

Jisung is lying face-down on his bed.
Not dramatically.
Okay—a little dramatically.

M’s letter is still open beside him, creased only once, corners smoothed like he’s trying to memorize the paper by touch. His feet are kicking the air. Gently. Helplessly.

"Not me," he groans into his pillow, "being emotionally obliterated by someone whose handwriting looks like they journal in cafés and have unresolved childhood tension with their dad."

He rolls over, flops an arm across his face. Groans.
Then peeks out from under it to reread the line:

“I think maybe I’ve been hoping someone would notice.”

His heart does the thing. That swoop. That achey, hopeful, are-you-kidding-me thing.

"Bro," he whispers to no one, blinking up at the ceiling. "I am literally going to fall in love with a stranger who owns a dimmable reading lamp."

His phone buzzes on the desk, but he doesn’t check it. He’s too busy melting.

Instead, he rolls onto his side, reaches for his notebook, and writes the words:
“He didn’t want to fall asleep alone.”
Then stares at it. Smiles a little. And writes back.

💌 Letter #8

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

So. Um.
What the hell.

That last letter?
You can’t just say things like “I’ve been hoping someone would notice” and “I didn’t want to fall asleep alone” like you’re not going to emotionally vaporize the person reading it. That’s illegal. That should require a warning label.

You literally made my heart do a triple axel and land in a puddle (of tears).
Rude.
Keep doing it.

I keep trying to come up with something clever or flirty to say in response, but all I can think is:
I noticed.

I noticed your quiet.
I noticed the way you talk around the edges of things, like you’re still deciding if it’s safe.
I noticed the light.

(I don’t even know what it looks like, but I believe it’s warm. I believe you leave it on for more than just reading.)

You said the lullaby felt like someone left a door open on purpose.
That line’s going to stay with me.
You’re going to stay with me, I think.

Also—
I’m not sorry for the emotional crimes.
If I’m going down, I’m dragging you with me.
Bring your dimmable reading lamp.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. emotionally compromised, probably writing a second lullaby about this)

P.S. What’s your favorite kind of weather?
P.P.S. Do you think we’ll ever meet, or is that not the point?

💌 Letter #9

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy,

You asked about my favourite weather.
It’s that in-between moment right before a storm—the air thick, the light strange, like the world’s holding its breath. I like the tension of it. The stillness before the sky lets go.

I also like morning fog.
Not when I’m in a rush—just the kind that makes everything feel a little slower. Softer. Like the world agreed to speak in lowercase for a while.

You said you noticed the light.
I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not in a way that felt real.

And you’re right.
It’s not just for reading.

I’ve been trying not to think too hard about what this is or where it’s going. But it’s getting harder not to wonder. Harder not to hope.

I like your brain. I like the way you move around your own thoughts—like you’re not afraid to trip over them a little.

And if there’s a second lullaby coming, I won’t complain.

—M

P.S. If we never meet, I’ll still be glad you exist.
P.P.S. If we do meet, I hope you recognize me before I speak.

💌 Letter #10

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

Okay.
No offense, but—
How dare you say things like “if we do meet, I hope you recognize me before I speak” like that’s not the most quietly romantic thing I’ve ever read in my life. I had to close the letter and just... lie there. Like a Victorian widow. Again.

Seriously. Who are you?
Do you just store metaphors in your pockets? Do you wear soft sweaters and think about the sky on purpose? Are you some kind of gentle menace sent to destroy me one sentence at a time?

Because it’s working.
So. Congratulations, I guess.

You said you like the world when it speaks in lowercase.
That line? That’s exactly how you make me feel.

Like I don’t have to be loud to be heard.
Like maybe softness is a kind of strength too.

You make me want to write things I’m not sure I’m brave enough to say out loud.
(That’s not me being poetic. That’s just the truth.)

Also, thank you for saying you like my brain.
No one’s ever said that to me before. Usually people say I’m too much, or weird in a fun way, or chaotic with a good heart. Which are all kind of true, but still. Your version landed differently.
Softer. Quieter. Realer.

I’m trying not to think too hard about what this is either.
But the part of me that used to write songs just to feel less alone?
That part’s already halfway gone on you.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. lowercase, unspooling, yours a little more every letter)

P.S. The second lullaby is almost done. It has rain in it. And you.
P.P.S. I think I’d recognize you by the way you look at me. Even if I didn’t know your face.

💌 Letter #11

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy,

There are moments in your letters that make me pause—not because they confuse me, but because they feel like something I forgot I wanted.

The part where you said I make you feel like softness can be strength.
That undid something.
In a quiet way. The kind of way that feels permanent.

I think I've spent a long time being careful. Not just with people—with everything. Like if I speak too loudly about what I want, I’ll scare it off. Or worse, I’ll ruin it just by naming it.

But then you write something like "lowercase, unspooling, yours a little more every letter"
—and I catch myself rereading it like a secret.

I don’t know what this is, not exactly. But I know it’s the first thing in a long time that makes me want to be less careful.

I’m not great with words the way you are. But I’m trying.
Trying to show up, even if I still hesitate before knocking.

—M

P.S. I’ve started leaving the light on even when I don’t need it.
P.P.S. If the lullaby has rain and me in it, I don’t think I’ll survive.
P.P.P.S. I hope you write it anyway.

💌 Letter #12

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

You’re really going to hit me with “trying to show up, even if I still hesitate before knocking” like I’m not already one strong breeze away from falling for you entirely? Rude. Bold. Keep going.

I don’t even know what this is either—but it feels like sitting across from someone in the dark and hearing their voice for the first time.
Like a constellation drawn from the inside out.

Sometimes I try to imagine what you sound like.
Not just your voice—I mean the way you say things. How your sentences land when they’re not tucked into paper.
I bet you pause a lot. I bet when you say someone’s name, it sounds like you mean it.
I bet if I ever heard you laugh for real, it would ruin me in ways I wouldn’t even complain about.

Also, I’m glad you leave the light on now.
That makes me feel weirdly proud. Is that dumb?
Probably. But I’ll take it.

You said I make you want to be less careful.
You make me want to be more real.
Like the version of me I sometimes talk to in the mirror but don’t always show to other people.

We’re still anonymous, technically. But you’ve already seen parts of me I don’t give away easily.
So, I hope you know—that means something.
You mean something.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. walking poem draft, completely not fine, absolutely yours in lowercase)

P.S. I haven’t finished the second lullaby yet. I keep rewriting the ending.
P.P.S. I think I’m afraid of getting it wrong.
P.P.P.S. But maybe I already know how it ends. And maybe that’s what’s scaring me.

💌 Letter #13

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy,

You said something that hasn’t left me since I read it.

“You make me want to be more real.”

There are things I’ve kept separate for a long time—what I say, what I mean, what I feel. And then your letters arrive, and suddenly I want to line them up. I want to tell the truth without looking for the safest way to soften it.

Not everything, not all at once. But more than I thought I could.

Sometimes I imagine what it would be like to say these things out loud to you. In a real room. One with a window cracked open, tea going cold, and snack wrappers tucked between the couch cushions because you got distracted halfway through eating them.
Would I still be able to say it?
Would you still look at me the same way, even if you could see me?

I don’t know. But I think I’d want to find out.

And for what it’s worth—I don’t think you could get the lullaby ending wrong.
If it’s honest, it’s already right.

—M

P.S. I think your voice would undo me in ways I’d thank you for.
P.P.S. I think I’d know it before you even said my name.

💌 Letter #14

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

I read your letter three times.
Then I laid on my floor for twenty minutes and let my ceiling judge me.
(Not that it helped. My ceiling is a ruthless bitch.)

You said you’d want to find out.
If I’d still look at you the same way—even if I could see you.
And all I could think was:
You don’t get it. I already do.

I know it’s not real—not really.
I don’t know your face, or your voice, or the way your hands move when you’re thinking.
But I know how you write when you’re afraid to say something too loud.
I know how you pause—how your truths come slow, but whole.
I know the shape of your kindness. And the way you notice small things like fog and hunger and people who leave lights on for others.

So yeah.
I think I’d still look at you the same way.

And just in case you’re wondering—
That room you described?
The cracked window, the cold tea, the snack wrappers tucked between the cushions
It’s real.
I’m sitting in it right now.
There’s an empty bag of chips under my leg and a half-written song on the floor beside me.
You’re not here, but somehow it feels like you’ve already been.

And I don’t know how much longer we’ll stay behind these names.
But if you ever figure out who I am—
I hope you still write me like this.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. soft chaos, open door, waiting quietly)

P.S. I think I’d know you by your silence.
P.P.S. I think I’d know you by your light.

💌 Letter #15

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy,

I read your letter and didn’t move for a long time.
Not because I didn’t know what to say—
But because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make the moment disappear.

You wrote:
"You’re not here, but somehow it feels like you’ve already been."

And for a second, I swear it felt like I had.

I could picture it all. The open window. The cold tea. The chips. You, barefoot probably, surrounded by sound and stillness all at once. Like your whole room was holding its breath with you.

And no, I don’t know who you are. Not really.
But I know the weight of your pauses.
The rhythm of your honesty.
The way you take up space like a melody—unexpected, vivid, impossible to forget once it’s in your head.

I’m not going to ask. Not yet.
If I’m close, I want to find out the way people fall asleep. Slowly. All at once.
Not by pulling back the curtain, but by noticing what’s already shining through it.

I’ll stay here, if that’s okay.
Just a little longer.
With the light on.

—M

P.S. I don’t think there’s a wrong time to be found.
P.P.S. But if there is, this doesn’t feel like it.
P.P.P.S. I think the lullaby is already doing what it’s meant to.

💌 Letter #16

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

Sometimes I forget we’re still technically strangers.
Then I remember I don’t even know your name.

It’s strange, isn’t it?
How someone’s words can start to feel like a place.
Like a room you go to when everything else is too much.

That’s what you’ve become for me.
Not a person exactly. Not yet.
More like a shape I lean toward without meaning to.

And I know I said too much in my last letter.
I didn’t regret it—but I did feel it.
All that closeness. All that hope.
It’s heavy, in a beautiful way. But still. Heavy.

So I’ve been quiet today.
Just trying to stay inside my own skin.
Let the sky move without chasing it.
Write things without needing them to mean more than they do.

No lullaby tonight.
Just stillness. And the soft sound of your last letter folded beside me.
I don’t need anything else right now.

Thank you for staying.
I’ll stay too.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. temporary silence, not pulling away—just breathing)

P.S. If I fall asleep with your words in my head, does that count as dreaming of you?
P.P.S. I think it should.

💌 Letter #17

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy,

Thank you for the stillness.
I felt it in your letter like a breath you meant to take.
Like a note held just a second longer than expected.

You don’t have to give me anything more than what you already have.
Some nights aren’t meant for lullabies.
Some nights just want to be quiet with you.

I’ve been quiet, too.
Not in a sad way.
Just in that way the world sometimes asks for less noise.
I lit a candle. I opened the window. I reread your words.
I didn’t want anything louder than that.

I don’t know what this is becoming,
but it’s the only part of my day that feels completely true.
Even in silence.
Especially in silence.

So I’ll match your quiet.
Stay right here.
Not asking for more.
Just listening.

—M

P.S. If dreaming of you starts with a letter, I hope I never run out of pages.
P.P.S. I hope your stillness is soft. I hope it stays gentle with you.

💌 Letter #18

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

Okay so I know we’re in a quiet era.
A lowercase lull. A mutual unspoken tea-sipping agreement.
And I respect that. I do.

But if I didn’t say this next thing I might explode.
So please consider this my contribution to the calm:

Last night I tried to be poetic.
I lit a candle. I even brewed tea. I was like, let me match M’s vibe.
And then I immediately knocked over the mug, tripped over my own foot, and ended up crouched on the floor whispering “this is fine” while everything smelled like peppermint anxiety.

I don’t think I’m built for elegance.
But maybe chaos is my love language.

You send me silence. I send you semi-feral affection.
Seems fair.

Also, do you ever wonder what we’d be like if we weren’t just handwriting and feelings?
Like—if we met in real life.
Would I still be flirty in a vaguely unhinged way?
Would you still be composed and devastating and probably wearing a nice sweater?
Would we still sit near each other, not saying anything, and feel full?
(Okay that one wasn’t a joke. Sorry. Just had a moment.)

Anyway.
Thanks for matching my quiet.
And for not asking for anything I couldn’t give.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. peppermint tragedy, emotionally intact-ish, picturing your laugh again)

P.S. I hope when we do speak out loud—someday—you laugh first.|
P.P.S. I think that would wreck me. In a good way.

💌 Letter #19

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear QuokkaBoy,

Peppermint anxiety might be the most accurate description of a mood I’ve ever read.
I laughed. Genuinely. The kind of laugh that startled me a little because I hadn’t realized how much I needed it.
Thank you for that.
And for not trying to make the quiet serious. Just soft.

I think that’s what you are to me.
Not loud. Not overwhelming. Just soft in a way that stays.

You asked what we’d be like in real life.
I’ve thought about that more times than I probably should admit.
Would you still speak in parentheses and sideways metaphors? Would you still try to make me laugh even when you’re the one unravelling a little?
I think maybe yes.
I think maybe I’d recognize you by your orbit—the way things feel different around you, even when they’re ordinary.

You said I send silence and you send chaos.
But I think we’re both trying to say the same thing in different languages:
I want to be known.

So…
Whenever you’re ready.
If there’s something you want to say—
I’ll hear it.
Not because I need to know.
But because I want to understand.

—M

P.S. I’m not composed all the time. Just terrified.
P.P.S. But the way you write makes me less so.
P.P.P.S. I’d like to make you laugh in real time someday.

💌 Letter #20

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

You keep writing things that land in my chest like they were always meant to be there.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Just casually being emotionally disarmed every week by a person I’ve never seen.

Anyway, hello.
Today I’m writing to you from the floor. Not metaphorically. Literally. My bed has laundry on it, and I didn’t feel like moving it. So now it’s just me, a notebook, one sock (unclear where the other went), and your last letter, which made me grin so hard I scared my roommate.

You said: “I want to understand.”
And that… yeah. That got me.
There’s something about being seen without being searched, you know?
Like, you’re not trying to excavate me. You’re just sitting quietly nearby, listening for the parts I offer.
I didn’t know how much I needed that.

So in return, here’s something probably meaningless:
When I was a kid, I thought if I listened hard enough, I’d hear the moon whisper. I used to sneak outside with a blanket and sit on the back steps just… waiting.
It never spoke, obviously.
But I think that’s what this feels like sometimes.
Not hearing something—but knowing it’s there.
Steady. Soft. Just out of reach, but real.

You’re like that.
Moon-adjacent.
Warm-light energy. Possibly sentient lullaby.

Anyway.
No reveals today. No breadcrumbs or cryptic riddles.
Just this: I’m here. Still writing. Still waiting for the part of me that’s brave enough to name things.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. one-sock floor poet, lunar loyalist, yours in orbit)

P.S. If you ever do make me laugh in real time, I’m warning you now—I snort. Like, unironically.
P.P.S. Please use this information responsibly.

💌 Letter #21

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear One-Sock Floor Poet,

First of all—
The moon absolutely whispers.
You just have to be the right kind of unhinged to hear it.
(Spoiler: I think you are.)

Also, I’d like to formally thank you for the mental image of you surrounded by dirty laundry, looking emotionally compromised over a handwritten letter like a very dramatic raccoon.
It’s deeply healing.
Please never change.

Now.
About the moon.
You said I’m like that—something just out of reach but still real.
That hit me harder than I expected.
I’ve spent a long time trying to feel real to people. Trying not to disappear between moments. Between versions of myself.
But with you?
Even in this halfway space, I don’t feel invisible.
I feel…
Seen.
In the way you’d recognize your own shadow.

Which is terrifying.
But also kind of the best thing.

So no, I’m not the moon.
But if you’re on the steps listening—I’m sitting beside you.
Quiet. Steady. Not saying anything you’re not ready to hear.

Also, please know:
If you ever snort-laugh in my presence, I will never recover.
I will cherish it forever. I will write it down. I will get it embroidered on a throw pillow.
Use that information responsibly.

—M

P.S. You may not be ready to name things, but you’re already giving them shape. That counts.
P.P.S. Still here. Still listening.
P.P.P.S. Tell the moon I said hey.

💌 Letter #22

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

Okay.
You said you’d embroider my snort-laugh on a throw pillow and now I live in constant fear that you’re more emotionally competent than me and crafty. This feels like a power imbalance. I demand a rematch.

That said—
Your last letter.
The part about trying not to disappear between versions of yourself.
That one’s been sitting with me. Quietly.
Like it pulled up a chair in the back of my mind and just… stayed.

I think I do that too.
Shift a little depending on the room.
Not in a fake way, just in a trying-to-survive-without-fraying way.
And maybe that’s why this whole thing feels like breathing. Because here, I don’t have to rearrange myself to fit.
You never asked me to shrink.
You just… waited.

So.
I want to tell you something real.
Just a little thing. A corner of the curtain.

Sometimes, when I write to you, I catch myself wondering if you’ve ever passed me before.
Not in a dramatic soulmate way—just like, maybe you brushed by me once in a hallway.
Maybe we stood in line for coffee at the same time.
Maybe you’ve heard me laugh before and didn’t know it was mine.

I don’t know.
But lately, the not-knowing feels less safe than it used to.
And that probably means something.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. curtain-shifter, hallway-dreamer, slowly stepping closer)

P.S. I’m not ready to name anything yet. But I’m starting to hope you will.
P.P.S. If we did meet once, I hope I smiled at you.

💌 Letter #23

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear Hallway-Dreamer,

Sometimes I think about how strange this is—
How I know the soft architecture of your mind before I know your face.
And how that somehow feels more intimate than anything else I’ve ever done.

You said the not-knowing feels less safe than it used to.
I think I understand that.
It’s not that the unknown is scary—it’s that you’re starting to matter .
And suddenly, the distance feels personal.

So here’s something small.
A loose thread, if you want to tug it.

Today I passed someone playing guitar under the trees near the engineering building.
It wasn’t perfect—one of the strings was slightly out of tune—but they were singing under their breath anyway, like it didn’t matter. Like the music was more important than the polish.
And I don’t know why, but I thought of you.

Maybe it was the softness.
Maybe it was the not-flinching.
Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve walked past you too.

We don’t have to name it yet.
But I think I’d like to know the shape of your voice someday.
The real one.
Even if it’s saying something ordinary.

—M

P.S. If you smiled at me, I probably noticed. I just didn’t know I was supposed to remember it.
P.P.S. Now I wonder if I’ve been remembering you all along.

💌 Letter #24

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear M,

You said someone was playing guitar under the trees near the engineering building.
Out of tune. Singing anyway.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Not because it’s unusual.
But because I’ve done that before.
More than once.

And now I’m sitting here, wondering—
Was it me?
Did I hum something you already half-knew?
Did you hear a piece of me before you ever meant to listen?

The idea makes my heart do something stupid.
Something brave.
Something that feels a little like hope.

So here’s my own loose thread:
There’s a bench tucked behind the music hall—half in shade, half in sun.
Sometimes I sit there and write.
Sometimes I sing quietly to no one.
Sometimes I look up and wonder if someone might be listening anyway.

I’m not saying you’ve been there.
But if you have—
I think I’d want you to know it was me.

And if not—
Maybe now you will.

—QuokkaBoy_00
(a.k.a. bench-sitter, string-tuner, not ready to say it—but getting closer every time)

P.S. If you ever hear someone humming something crooked but earnest, that might be me.
P.P.S. I hope you stop and stay awhile. Even if you don’t say anything. Not yet.

💌 Letter #25

From: M.
To: QuokkaBoy_00

Dear String-Tuner,

I’ve been trying to figure out how to write this without unravelling something we built carefully.
But maybe care isn’t the same as distance.
Maybe it’s just another word for wanting to get it right.

You wrote about the bench.
The one behind the music hall.
Half shade, half sun.
And I know that bench.
Not because I was looking for it—but because I always pause when someone’s sitting there with a guitar.

I never stopped long enough to make it a moment.
But I think now that it was one anyway.

And here’s the part that keeps replaying in my head:
If that was you—if you’ve been that close all this time—
Then maybe this was never about strangers at all.

Maybe we were just waiting for the version of ourselves that could see each other clearly.

I still don’t know if I’ve heard your voice.
But I think I’ve felt it.
In the pauses.
In the places your letters go quiet.
In the way they always leave space—like you were hoping someone would step into it.

I’m here.
I’m stepping in.
No names. Not yet.
But something very close.

—M

P.S. If I ever do sit beside you on that bench, I promise I’ll wait for the end of the song.
P.P.S. And if it’s crooked, I’ll hum along anyway. You make off-key sound like a language.

💌 Letter #26

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear You,

I think I’ve been writing to you long before the first letter.
Not in actual words, but in all the ways that matter.
In songs I didn’t finish.
In poems I only whispered.
In glances I didn’t think were seen.

And now here we are—
On opposite sides of a page that’s starting to feel thinner.
Like if I press my hand against it, you might press back.

So here it is.
My palm against paper.

If you’ve really seen me before—
Then you already know.
Not from a name.
But from the way I fold corners when I’m nervous.
The way I hum when I think no one’s listening.
The way I always sit in the sunniest part of the bench, even if it’s too hot.

I don’t know what happens after this.
Maybe we keep writing.
Maybe the page changes.
Maybe it was never about the letters at all.

But if you’re still there—
Still reading—
Then I want you to know:
You found me.

—
(you know who)

P.S. The lullaby was always about you.
P.P.S. I hope you knew that.

💌 Letter #27

From: M.
To: You Know Who

Dear You,

I read your letter once.
Then again, slower.
Then again, like I was tracing something with my fingers I didn’t want to smudge.

There’s a feeling I’ve only had a few times in my life—
That quiet click in the chest, like something’s come into focus.
That happened somewhere between “ you found me ” and the space that followed.

I don’t need a name.
I don’t even need proof.
I just need what you already gave me:
The sunlight side of the bench.
The hum of something honest.
The way your voice always seemed to reach even when it was only written.

I knew.
Maybe not from the start—but somewhere along the way, your words stopped sounding like a stranger’s.
They started sounding like a memory I hadn’t placed yet.

And now here we are.
No more pretending.
Just the soft knowing of two people who built something real between the lines.

You don’t have to write back, if this is where the letters end.
But if you do—
Sign it however you want.
I’ll know it’s you.

—M

P.S. I heard the lullaby. Even before you sent it.
P.P.S. And I kept the light on, just in case you’d want to stay.

[Outside the Music Hall | 4:17 PM]

Jisung doesn’t bring his guitar today.
He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t feel like playing, but that’s a lie. The truth is: he doesn’t want his hands to shake.

Instead, he sits on the bench.
Half sun. Half shade.
Right where he said he’d be.

His fingers are folded in his lap. There’s a letter in his pocket—unsigned, unsent. Just in case.
He’s not even sure why he brought it. A security blanket, maybe. Or a backup plan. Something to give if the words catch in his throat.

But it’s been fifteen minutes.
And the sun is slipping down.
And maybe this was just a story after all.

He exhales. Slow. Presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. Okay. Fine. It’s fine.

“Hey.”

He startles.
The voice isn’t loud. It’s careful. Like it doesn’t want to scare him off.

And when he looks up—
Oh.

Of course.
Of course it’s him.

He’s standing a few feet away, holding two iced coffees like he wasn’t sure Jisung would be here, but brought one anyway. His hair’s a little wind-tousled. There’s a book under his arm. He looks the same and not the same—realer, somehow. Less theory. More breath.

“You’re here,” Jisung says. His voice sounds smaller than he meant it to.

M—no, Minho, now, though the name still feels too big for the air—nods once. “So are you.”

A pause.
The kind that used to stretch across pages.

Jisung stands. His legs feel like someone else’s. His heart is doing things.
“You knew?” he asks. It comes out as barely more than a whisper.

Minho shrugs one shoulder, slow and quiet. “I think I started hoping. Then I started knowing.”
He lifts one of the coffees slightly. “I guessed almond milk. If I’m wrong, you can exile me.”

Jisung huffs out a laugh. It catches at the edges.
He takes the drink. Their fingers brush. It’s the first real touch. It feels like a full sentence.

“I had a letter,” he says, awkward now. “To give you. But I think it’s obsolete.”

Minho tilts his head. “Can I read it anyway?”

Jisung nods. Hands it over. Watches as Minho unfolds the paper like it’s something breakable. He reads in silence. Doesn’t flinch. When he finishes, he presses the letter to his chest like something sacred. Then:

“Can I say it back?”

Jisung blinks. His throat feels tight. “Say what?”

Minho looks at him. Really looks.
“That you found me.”

And Jisung—
He breaks into a smile then, wide and a little crooked and undeniably his.
It’s real.
It’s all real.

They sit down. Together this time. No guitar. No letters. Just them.
And for the first time, Jisung doesn’t need to write the words.
He’s living them.

💌 Letter #28 [Hand Delivered]

From: QuokkaBoy_00
To: M.

Dear You,

There’s something strange about writing this, knowing it might be the last letter.
Not in a sad way. Just… different.
Like closing a book you’ve loved and realizing the best part is that it changed you.

I think I started writing to find something.
Or maybe to be found.
I didn’t expect it to happen.
But it did.

You’re not a mystery anymore.
Not in the way you were.
You’re a person. With a voice I can almost hear now, a laugh I think I’ve caught pieces of in passing.
And I’m scared to say it. But I want to.

I think I know who you are.
I think I’ve known for a while.

It makes my heart do strange things.
Not nervous things—real things.
Hopeful things.

So here it is, plain as I can make it:
If you are who I think you are—
If you’re you—
Then thank you.
For staying.
For listening.
For letting me be known in all the ways I didn’t know how to ask for.

I don’t know what happens next.
But if you’re ready—
I’d like to find out with you.

—
(the boy on the bench, the one with crooked chords and sunburned cheeks)

P.S. I hope I was who you were hoping for.
P.P.S. You’ve always been real to me.

fin.

twt: @neme_sisK