Chapter Text
Yin and yang, white and black, right and wrong, everything has an opposite, a complimenting creation even people. Jonas had long wondered if he would ever meet his or if, in some cruel twist of fate, the universe has decided he didn't deserve one, but that would've been an anomaly, and he wasn't important enough to be unique compared to the rest of the population.
That meant somewhere someone was made for him and even if he never met them the thought got him through the day. Perhaps it was silly to care about a hypothetical person so much, but plenty of people believed in a God, so why couldn't Jonas believe in a mortal?
He had been assigned a school therapist after a worrying report from a teacher, but his inability to open up had resulted in her giving him some interesting advise. She had told him that writing could help him processes his thoughts and feelings while not having to verbalize them. Jonas decided that since people sent God prayers to sort out their thoughts and confess their sins. He would address a letter to his hypothetical person to do much the same.
His first letter was written in orange crayon, as the therapist's office lacked any pens, and he addressed it to "Dear Hypothetical."
Rather than signing with his name he simply signed "Somebody" because wasn't that what his hypothetical person made him? Every day, he faded to that back as nobody a translucent body that people just glanced right through, but if he mattered to one person that would make him solid again.
He had made up a random PO box address, 1233 and sent the letter with all the naive joy that comes with doing something you're too young to understand might have consequences.
Almost 13 years later he now stared down at the consequences with shaking hands, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He had sent letters to the PO box maybe twice a year at most. It was a simple way to decompress from stress without the commitment of a diary. He had never stopped to wonder whether the address had an owner. By the time he was old enough to consider the logistics it had already become such a habit.
The letter sitting on his dining room table from PO box 1233 confirmed that there was in fact an owner to Jonas's emotional dumping ground. Maybe, they were just contacting him to stop sending letters, fed up with random letters from a stranger. They were going to politely tell him to stop sending letters to a private postal box. Yes, that sounded likely. Jonas wiped his sweaty palms on his equally sweaty T-shirt; Before, hesitantly reaching for the letter. He stared at the white envelope willing it to divulge its secrets. The envelope remained silent except for a very loud stamp with a galactic kitten beaming lasers out of its eyes.
Rummaging around for a moment in his desk, he finally pulled a letter opener out of the depths. Taking a deep breath he sliced through the seal and drew the letter out of its confinement.
It was a normal looking letter on cream stationary paper and Jonas wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting. The torture of freeing the letter had set his heart beating wildly again, and he gently laid it down to recover for a brief moment. Armed with a glass of water he once more returned to the letter and tightly grasped it. Intent on fully reading the contents without backing out.
Taking one last sip of water, he read.
Dear Someone,
hello! You may be wondering who I am and as I already know so much about you, such as your favorite color being blue and your wardrobe mostly consisting of black tees. It's only fair I, how you say, divulge some information to you!
My favorite color is also blue (we have so much in common already) I prefer white tees and shirts with funny things on them like cats saying they love lasagna or hate Mondays.
I moved to this country a few years ago and started living with a friend, but he has recently taken his relationship to the next level meaning his girlfriend moved in and I moved out! Yes pity me, my situation as the single roommate was dire. Luckily his girlfriend told me I could have her flat; however, it came with no built-in mailbox, so I quickly headed to the closest post office to remedy this with a PO box. You can imagine my surprise when I went to open my new, and assumed empty, box only to have letters start spilling out of it and falling to my feet in heaps. I gathered them all up and took them home assuming they were either from the prior owner or the car insurance companies had smelt fresh blood and were already pouncing on me. When I finally got around to opening these letters I realized they were personal mail and sorted them in order of date, which you so helpfully wrote on the corner of each envelope. I started with the 1st one and quickly realized that it was in Danish, I'm afraid despite my absolutely amazing and talented mind I am unable to speak or read Danish, and I was forced to give up on the first batch of letters; however you switched to writing them in English at about the 5th one, and I am perfectly fluent in English, despite what my American friend says.
I spent the entire afternoon reading your letters to a hypothetical person, and I felt…..
I simply felt. Its been a long time since I've let myself sit and feel. As silly as it sounds you wrote unashamedly about yourself about who you were and your struggles, and it made me wonder if you were a twin soul, I think thats the phrase, someone who could understand me.
Not that I'm particularly complicated, I've always felt I'm a bit of an open book, but maybe the double edged sword part of that is no one wants to read me. I'm a boring book, not one of the fun genres like crime or romance. I'm just a nonfiction where the author won't stop bloviating.
Perhaps you think I'm being too open for a first meeting, or, well, writing, but you were so open and honest in your letters. Putting who you are down in irreversible ink so boldly. I wanted to return that, make you see that there was no reason to be embarrassed when it was just me. Stranger though I am I think your thoughts are something worth reading, and I hope that you could think the same way of me.
Now before I sign off I have one question for you.
Why does a Danish man write his letters in English and have a French PO box address?
Sincerely,
Hoping To hear From You.
Jonas placed the letter back down, took a deep breath, walked to his couch, grabbed a throw pillow, and screamed into it. Someone had read his letters. He hadn't thought of that as a possibility.
His bubble of safety had been popped unexpectedly and the desire to hyperventilate was strong. Maybe he could move to some remote part of the country, go off the grid and never send another letter as long as he lived. Which, considering his hunting skills wouldn't be that long. He did of course have the option of facing the situation head on like an adult, but at the current moment that seemed truly impossible.
After about half an hour of panicking, Jonas stood up on shaky legs. The letter remaind exactly where he had dropped it on the dining room table. It's lines sitting there unassuming as light from the window streamed through the page making a gentle splotch of yellowish light on the table. The paper was plucked from its resting spot and reread. It returned back down and Jonas entered the next stage of panic, pacing. This stage was nowhere near as extensive as its predecessor and the letter was quickly back in its recipients hand.
Jonas brought the letter down a hallway and into his bedroom.Which was decorated sparsely, a few tchotchkes rested on well ladened bookshelves attached to white walls, surrounding a bed with a white comforter. The most unique piece in the room was a large wooden desk with painstakingly ornate detailing that dominated the corner. He approached the desk and pulled out a pen and paper. He hesitated a split second before pulling out a chair and committing to his task.
He wrote till his hand cramped and the sun had sunk below the horizon. Several drafts laid scattered behind him, some torn others simply crumpled, none had successfully made it to the bin. The reply now rested before him, two pages long and written in his very own handwriting, admittedly a tad more shaky then usual. Before he could stop himself by throwing the letter out of the nearest window, he pulled out a yellow envelope, addressed it properly, stuck the letter in, and added a stamp.
He laid the finished post on a stack of work packages, and promised to think no more of this mysterious situation till morning.