Chapter Text
The first letter shows up on a Monday morning, right after Gamin trips over his own slippers on the way to the door. He mutters at the universe, “Great start to the day,” before noticing the envelope waiting on the floor like it crawled there by itself.
His name is written across it. Sharp strokes. Heavy pressure. That handwriting could belong to only one person.
Hanwool.
Gamin freezes for three whole seconds. Then five. Then he whispers under his breath, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He picks up the envelope with two fingers like it’s radioactive and sets it on the table. Then he walks away from it. Like… ten steps away. Like distance might neutralize it.
The room is quiet except for the faint ticking of the cheap wall clock. The air smells faintly of instant coffee from the cup he forgot to wash last night.
Gamin throws a glance over his shoulder.
The letter is still there.
“Stop looking at me,” he mutters to the envelope like it’s alive.
He tries to get ready for school. That lasts… four minutes. He tries to eat. Zero success. He sits at his desk, opens his textbook, and rereads the same sentence twelve times until the words turn into abstract art.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The letter keeps staring.
Finally, Gamin sighs sharply and snaps, “Fine. You win.”
He stomps over like he’s going to fight it. He grabs the envelope, tears it open a little too aggressively, and unfolds the single sheet inside. Hanwool’s handwriting is angry. It practically dents the paper.
He starts reading.
“Gamin. You said you never wanted to see me again.”
Gamin scoffs out loud. “Yeah, I remember. It was a great moment for both of us.”
He keeps reading.
“Fine. I don’t care.”
“Liar,” Gamin says instantly.
“But you should know I didn’t lose to you that day. I lost to myself. And that pisses me off more than anything.”
Gamin stops. His throat tightens, hot and sharp. He crumples the letter in one hand, his voice shaking between anger and something uncomfortably close to hurt.
“Why would you even send me this?”
He throws it across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands on the floor like a wounded pigeon. He tells himself, “I’m not reading the rest. Nope. Not happening.”
He tries to leave it. Really, he does.
But the room feels too quiet. Too warm. Too… aware.
Hours pass.
Afternoon light filters through the window, soft and golden, crawling across the floor until it reaches the letter like it’s highlighting a clue in a mystery show. Gamin groans, rubbing his face. “I swear if this turns into trauma bonding I’m suing someone.”
He walks over, kneels down, and picks up the crumpled paper. His fingers smooth the wrinkles carefully even though he pretends not to notice he’s doing it gently.
Then he reads.
Every word.
Right to the end.
And he hates, absolutely hates how his chest feels a little too full afterward.
The second letter arrives faster than Gamin expects.
It shows up two days later, slipped under his door again like the postman is scared of him. Honestly, Gamin can’t blame the guy. If he saw his own face in the mornings, he’d avoid delivering mail too.
This time, Gamin doesn’t stare at the envelope for hours. He stares for… thirty minutes. Improvement.
He sits on the floor, legs crossed, the room lit with that soft afternoon glow that makes everything look too calm for what’s happening inside his chest. The envelope sits between his feet like a bomb.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s get this over with.”
He opens it carefully. Too carefully. Even he realizes it.
The handwriting inside makes him pause. It’s still Hanwool’s, but not as messy as before. Less anger in the strokes. More… restraint?
The letter starts differently this time.
“Gamin. I’m not writing this because I miss you. I’m writing this because boredom is killing me faster than the guards ever could.”
Gamin snorts. “Yeah, sure. Missing me would be easier to admit.”
He keeps reading, even though he pretends not to care.
“People here don’t talk much. They keep their heads down. It’s strange. I’m used to being the one they’re afraid of.”
Gamin’s fingers pause on the paper. For a moment he sees Hanwool as he was the last time they fought, bloody, breathing hard, expression cracked open like he didn’t know how to hold himself together anymore.
Something tightens in Gamin’s chest.
“Stop being poetic,” he grumbles softly.
He reads on.
“I heard something today. One of the guards said you were doing fine. That you went back to school. Good.”
Gamin blinks.
Good?
Hanwool wrote good?
He leans back against the wall, staring at the paper like it just confessed a secret.
“Don’t misunderstand. I’m not happy for you. I just don’t want to lose to someone who gives up halfway.”
Gamin snorts out loud. “You’re unbelievable.”
But then his eyes catch the last few lines, less structured, less guarded, like Hanwool got tired of pretending mid-sentence.
“I still don’t regret fighting you. But sometimes… I think I regret the way I ended it.”
Gamin’s breath catches, soft and involuntary. He folds the letter quickly, like hiding the words makes them less real. He presses the edge of the paper against his knee, tapping it anxiously. Then, because denial is his favorite hobby, he says to the empty room, “Well, that doesn’t mean anything.”
The room doesn’t answer.
The silence feels heavier than before.
Three days later, letter number three arrives.
Gamin opens it immediately. Like zero hesitation. Even he’s embarrassed by how fast his fingers move.
This one starts simple.
“Gamin. I had a dream that you punched me. I woke up laughing.”
Gamin almost smiles before catching himself. “Not funny,” he mutters. It kind of is. He keeps reading, chest warming in a way he absolutely refuses to acknowledge.
“They made us clean the courtyard today. The guy next to me asked if I had someone waiting outside. I told him no. But my hand kept twitching like it wanted to say something else.”
Gamin’s throat tightens. He reads slower now.
“Do whatever you want with these letters. Burn them. Throw them out. Use them as coasters.”
Gamin whispers, “I’m definitely not doing that.” And then the last line hits him like a soft punch.
“I’ll write again. Even if you never read it.”
Gamin folds the paper gently. Too gently. He presses it to his knee, staring at the floor. His voice comes out quiet. “Why are you doing this…” He doesn’t have an answer. But he keeps the letter. Just like the others. Hidden in the drawer he pretends not to touch every night.