"I said I'mfine."
The snap in my voice surprises even me. I take a breath—two counts in, four counts hold, eight counts out—and feel the edge soften slightly.
"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm just… it's been almost two months, Ro. What if something happened? What if he's?—"
"Speculating without data is counterproductive."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. You're right."
I grab the envelope from my makeshift desk—a board balanced between two concrete blocks, covered in stolen stationary, contraband pens, and a collection of dead flowers I can't bring myself to throw away—and fold the letter carefully. My movements are precise. Methodical.
Counted.
Two folds. Not three. Never three.
The seal comes next: a custom stamp I made during one of my functional periods, when the world made sense for approximately six hours and I got shit done. Neon pink wax—because subtlety has never been my strong suit—melts over a candle flame that flickers in the draft from the broken vent.
I press the stamp down.
Perfect.
But not complete.
Never complete without the ritual.
From my pocket, I extract a sewing pin—stolen from the academy's costume department, sharp enough to pierce skin easily. I hold it up to the flickering light, watching it gleam.
"This is the part where I remind you that self-harm is contraindicated for mental health," Ro says, tone flatter than usual. "And that introducing biohazards into the postal system is technically?—"
"It's not self-harm if it's ceremonial."
"That's not?—"
"Ceremonial, Ro."
I press the pin into my fingertip—left hand, ring finger, because it's closest to my heart and furthest from practical—and watch three perfect droplets of blood well up.
One. Two. Three.
Fuck.Three. Uneven. Wrong.
I squeeze out a fourth droplet, breathing easier as it joins the others.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Better.
The blood falls onto the pink wax seal, spreading slightly before drying into a dark rust stain. My commitment. My promise. My sacrifice to whoever the fuck is on the other end of these letters.
"Does he know?" I ask, mostly to myself. "Does S.W. know that every letter I send has my blood on it? That I've been doing this for five years? That it's the only thing keeping me tethered to something resembling humanity?"
"Insufficient data to?—"
"I know, I know. You don't know shit." I pop my finger into my mouth, tasting copper and salt. "I just… I wrote in this one that I want his name. Is that too much? Too desperate? Too?—"
"You're overthinking."
"I'malwaysoverthinking. My brain doesn't have an off switch."
