Page 5 of Soul to Possess

You asked if I ever get lonely. Yes. The kind that makes you ache deep inside, and just feel forlorn forever.

Tell me something you’ve never said out loud.

—M

Marvin,

I laughed at your sock story. Out loud. The kind that startled the cat and made the neighbor’s dog bark. So, congratulations—you’re officially the funniest person I’ve interacted with this week. Not that the competition’s fierce. The barista at the gas station café called me “darlin’” and gave me a stale biscotti. I think that’s the closest I’ve come to flirting in the last six months.

You asked me to tell you something I’ve never said out loud.

So here it is: Sometimes I lie awake at night and pretend I live inside a house that doesn’t echo. A place where someoneelse’s breathing fills the dark, steady and soft, and I’m not always the one who has to lock the doors or make the coffee or remember to buy more light bulbs. I pretend there’s someone who knows how I take my tea and would notice if I didn’t come home.

That’s pathetic, isn’t it? I didn’t write to you because I was brave. I wrote to you because I was tired. Of pretending I don’t want more. Of convincing myself that I’m too complicated or too damaged or too late. But your letter—it felt like the first time in a long time someone saw past the silence.

Tell me what kind of coffee you drink. Tell me what scares you. Tell me if you’ve ever fallen asleep somewhere you weren’t supposed to.

I want to know the little things.

—Gennie

Gennie,

You're not pathetic. You’re honest. That’s rare. And brave, whether you meant it to be or not. You gave me something real, and I felt it hit in a place I forgot still worked.

Your letter—it was like stepping into a room I didn’t know I’d been locked out of. One where someone else had left a light on for me. You asked about coffee. I take it black. Cheap stuff, usually. From a tin. No fancy names, no cream, no sugar. The kind of brew that tastes like a bad decision and keeps you awake anyway. Same brand my dad drank, and I hated that man, but habits die slower than people do.

You asked what scares me. Here’s something: I’m afraid of being forgotten by the time I’m gone. Not missed—just erased. Like I was never here to begin with. Some days I look in the mirror and feel like I’m already halfway gone.

And yeah—I’ve fallen asleep where I wasn’t supposed to. In the back of a feed truck once, after a fight with my brother.Woke up with straw in my ears and frost on my eyelashes. I was seventeen and stupid and sure I’d never need anyone. That aged poorly.

Gennie… if I were there, I’d make your coffee the way you like it. I’d remember the light bulbs. I’d leave the door unlocked when you said you were on your way home. Not because I’m good at any of this—but because I’d want to try.

Tell me what kind of music makes you feel like your ribs might break from holding it all in.

Tell me what you’d do if no one was watching.

—M

Marvin,

You say things like you’re carving them into wood. Sharp and permanent and real. I think I reread your letter five times before I folded it up and tucked it under my pillow like a teenager with a crush. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s exactly what this is—a slow, strange, impossible crush that feels a little too sacred to name.

I tried to imagine you in that feed truck, all frost-bitten and stubborn. Part of me wanted to laugh. The other part wanted to climb in next to you and stay until spring. You asked about music. What makes me feel like I’m unraveling in all the right ways.

There's a song—old, slow, kind of haunting. The kind that sounds like it’s been soaked in whiskey and cigarette smoke. I played it once in the car, and the sun was low enough to make everything look like memory. “I’m so lonesome I could cry” I cried so hard I had to pull over. Not because I was sad—because it felt like it cracked something open that had been locked tight too long. That’s the kind of music I go back to. The kind that lets you bleed a little quieter.

And if no one was watching? I think I’d dance. Not well, not gracefully. But like the kind of girl who used to spin in the kitchen in bare feet, chasing a kind of joy that didn’t ask questions. I’d wear red lipstick for no one. Eat cake with my fingers. Read poems out loud to myself just to hear the words take up space.

I’d write letters to strangers.

I’d write to you.

Tell me the worst thing you ever regretted.

Tell me what makes you stay, even when it’s easier to go.

—G

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