My Letters to You

1 - Letters Only

I push my cart full of returns through the library. The squeaking wheels fill the quiet space as I hum softly to the song stuck in my head. The air smells faintly of new books—my favorite. This is the best place to be, lost in the world of imagination.

As I round the corner near the events board, something colorful catches my eye. A new flyer is pinned: International Pen-Pal Program—Letters Only!!

I pause, trying to read the flyer in better detail. Connect with someone across the globe. Share your stories. Gain a friend. The only rule—handwritten letters only! Fill out the form and be paired with someone of similar interests.

I glance down to see the forms neatly stacked in a bin on the table underneath the bulletin board and a small thrill shoots through me. I don't do social media, so the idea of handwritten letters only intrigues me. I could count the number of friends I have on one hand—well, on one finger actually. I only have one friend, and I've had her since elementary school.

I pick up a form and sit at a nearby table.

Name: Tillie Jones.

Age: 24.

Location: Texas, USA.

Language: English.

Interests: Reading, writing, hiking, volunteering with animals, and going to church.

Occupation/Education:  Part-time college student, English Major, part-time library worker.

Once I'm done filling out the form, I slip it into the outgoing mail slot. I'm not sure how much I should expect anything out of it. What if the person I'm paired with doesn't even write me back?

After a quick day of shelving returns, giving reading suggestions, and small conversations I have with Mrs. Lantham at the front desk, it's time for me to go home.

The moon casts just enough light to illuminate the sidewalk on my walk home. I don't have a car, but thankfully I only live about a 10-minute walk from the library. The night air is cool against my skin, which is a bit of relief compared to the hot days. The streets are quiet, except for the occasional car passing by.

My mind drifts to the flyer. I wonder who they'll pair me with? Or what part of the world they're from?

What if we can't speak the same language? Surely, they wouldn't pair me with someone I can't even communicate with...right?

As I open the door to my grandparent's house, the smell of supper drifts through the air. My belly growls loudly in agreement causing me to my smile softly.

I make my way to the kitchen where my grandma stands by the stove making what looks like fried chicken.

"Hey, grandma," I say, giving her a small kiss on the cheek.

She smiles brightly, her skin wrinkling around her brown eyes.

"Hey dear, did you have a good day?" she asks, brushing a strand of her grey hair behind her ear.

I love living with my grandparents. My parents decided to travel together after my high school graduation, and instead of me going with them, my grandma offered to let me move in with them. Since I only go to school part-time, dorms are out of the question.

"Yeah," I say, placing my bag on the hook. "I did something new today."

She raises a brow. "Like what, dear?"

I stand beside her and start peeling potatoes. "There was this flyer at work today. An international pel-pal program—"

Before I can finish the sentence, she cuts me off. "What's a pen-pal?"

"It's someone I'll write to—just letters. And they'll write back. Since it's international, it's going to be from someone outside of the U.S. They'll pair me with someone with similar interests," I explain.

She nods, flipping a piece of chicken in the pan, though she still looks a bit on the fence. "So, you'll have a friend far away?"

I smile. "Exactly. And it's all handwritten. I think it could be fun."

Her face softens as she sets the spatula down. "Then I'm excited for you, dear."

We take our seats at the table like we do every night—it's a part of our daily routine. Breakfast and supper together without fail. Almost like tradition.

"Grandma," I say after I've swallowed my bite of mashed potatoes, "have you ever written letters to anyone?"

She smiles softly, looking deep in thought. "A long time ago."

"With who?" I ask, curiosity bright in my tone.

"Your grandpa," she replies.

As if on cue, the front door swings open, and my grandpa steps inside, a cheerful grin on his face. He's always in a good mood—even at 70 and still working. He claims he'd go stir crazy if he retired.

He slides into the seat beside my grandma and places a quick kiss on her cheek.

"Supper looks lovely tonight," he says, surveying the table.

She playfully rolls her eyes. "You say that every night."

"It looks lovely every night," he says pointedly, taking a bite of his fried chicken.

I smile at their easy banter. My grandparents are the definition of finding your true love. So are my parents. You would think with such amazing examples of true love, finding my own person would be easy. But it hasn't. I've dated a few people since high school and it's the same: we usually don't have the same views.

I don't date people for the fun of it; I date to find my person. And as soon as I say, "I'm saving myself for marriage" most men flee. But that's fine, the bad eggs weed themselves out, I'm better off without them. So, I just choose to not date for now and focus on my studies.

After supper, I help my grandma do dishes while my grandpa puts away the leftovers and takes out the trash. I kiss them both goodnight and slip into my room.

After a hot shower, I slide on my silk pajamas and crawl under the covers. I pause for quick prayer, finding comfort in my familiar routine.

Once I'm settled, my mind—once again—slips back to the flyer. If they do respond, I wonder if they'll view the world the same as me. I don't suppose I care what other people think, but I do hope they don't think I'm weird for my beliefs either. I wonder if they've ever been to another part of the world, or if they've stayed in the same place their entire life like me.

What if they think I ramble too much? Or if I'm too weird?

With a final sigh, I turn off my lamp and pull the covers tighter around my shoulders. I guess time will tell if I find a friend in this program or not.

Author's Note:

Eeek 🤭 thank you for reading! This is probably my favorite thing I've ever written, and it's different, so stick with me.

Some things may not be completely realistic. Obviously, in real life international letters take a lot longer to receive than a couple days, BUT this isn't the real world. This is Samantha's ✨ imagination ✨ and in my imagination, they can come whenever I'd like them to.

Also, Tillie is 24, yes. But she's also very socially awkward, which you may find immature at times. Don't be mean to Tillie, I'll cry.

I'm not telling you anything else, please just read 😭

Oh yes, one more thing—this story is technically complete. It's just a matter of publishing the chapters.

Oh! And vote, comment, and share (please, if you'd like.)

Happy reading!! ❤️