To: Theo Morgan theo.morgan@mail4me.net
Subject: Penpal Programme — Hello from London
Date: March 3rd
Dear Theodore,
I hope I’m sending this to the right address. I was matched with you through the CrossWords Penpal Exchange (cultural, not criminal — despite the name), and you seemed like a safe bet: no missing person alerts or ransom demands attached. Yet.
I’ll keep this brief, as first letters are awkward and I’ve already rewritten this sentence four times. I live in London — actual London, not the one in Ontario or Ohio — and I signed up for this programme as a way to distract myself from becoming That Person who talks to her kettle. So far, it’s working.
A few facts to start us off:
• I’m a translator, which means I mostly argue with commas for a living.
• I like secondhand bookshops, misused apostrophes, and any weather that allows a scarf.
• I do not enjoy bananas, karaoke, or unsolicited life advice in queues.
How about you?
Kind regards,
Anna
________________________________________
To: Anna Westbrook a.westbrook.uk@email.com
Subject: Re: Penpal Programme — Hello from London
Date: March 4th
Dear Anna-from-actual-London,
You had me at “ransom demands.” I knew this penpal thing would pay off.
Nice to meet you — I’m Theo. I live in a town called Ashville, Indiana, which you’ve never heard of and absolutely don’t need to pretend otherwise. We’re famous for... nothing. We do, however, have an annual Corn Dog Parade and a gas station that sells three kinds of peanut brittle. So. Culture.
Quick fire back at you:
• I work as a part-time copy editor for a small press, which is less glamorous than it sounds and exactly as sleep-depriving.
• I enjoy bad movies, old diner booths, and making lists I never complete.
• I once entered a pie-eating contest and won nothing but shame and indigestion.
• Last month, my brother tried to give himself a "retro" haircut and emerged looking like a disgraced roadie from a forgotten hair-metal band. We're still not speaking of it. The photos are being held as emotional blackmail.
I approve of your banana aversion and support your apostrophe agenda. I, too, talk to appliances (my toaster’s called Kevin). If you write back, tell me about the best book you’ve read that no one else seems to know.
Looking forward to it,
Theo
________________________________________
To: Theo Morgan
Subject: Re: Corn Dogs and Apostrophes
Date: March 6th
Dear Theo (and Kevin, esteemed toaster),
I must begin by confessing ignorance. Despite your claims, I have absolutely no idea what a corn dog is. My imagination is offering only two possibilities:
1. A parade of dogs wearing collars made from corn.
2. Something corn-related pretending to be food.
The only time I ever saw one in real life — and I use that phrase loosely — was last year in a dimly lit American diner near Leicester Square. I ordered one out of sheer curiosity. It arrived skewered, suspiciously shiny, and tasting like someone had deep-fried an identity crisis.
So please. Enlighten me. Is the corn dog proud of what it is?
Also: thank you for writing back. I didn’t realise how much I needed something to look forward to in the inbox. Your brother’s “bold” mullet made me snort tea onto my keyboard, so you’re now financially responsible for any stickiness-related repairs.
As for your question — what I wish someone would ask me? I think I wish someone would ask why I stayed so long in something that made me small. No one ever does. They just assume I was foolish, or too nice, or not paying attention. Maybe I was all three. But mostly, I was just tired.
Anyway, this got heavier than I intended. I promise next time I’ll write about something light and inconsequential, like punctuation crimes or underwhelming sandwiches.
Your turn: what’s the most ridiculous hill you’re willing to die on?
Yours in corn-related confusion,
Anna
________________________________________
To: Anna Westbrook
Subject: Re: Your Corn Dog Awakening
Date: March 7th
Anna,
Your description of the corn dog as “a deep-fried identity crisis” is now canon and must be preserved in the Smithsonian.
To clarify: a corn dog is a hot dog, on a stick, dipped in cornmeal batter and fried until it questions all its choices. It’s often eaten at fairs by people wearing hats shaped like other food. The key to enjoying it is not asking whether you’re enjoying it.
That said, I’m oddly touched by your bewilderment. The idea of you encountering your first corn dog in a West End diner like it was some exotic encounter — that’s poetry, honestly.
Thank you for what you wrote. Not the corn dog part — the other bit. You don’t sound foolish. You sound like someone who survived something quietly. That’s no small thing.
Now. The hill I will die on:
Cereal is not soup.
I don’t care what the philosophers say. If it’s cold, sugary, and comes with a prize at the bottom, it’s a breakfast, not a broth.
Your move.
Theo (and Kevin, who also disapproves of cereal discourse)
________________________________________
Subject: Cereal Crimes and Secret Joys
Date: March 9th
Theo (and Kevin),
You’ll be relieved to know I agree — cereal is not soup, no matter what the postmodernists claim. I hereby join your crusade against culinary taxonomy gone rogue.
I’ve also made a list titled “Things I Haven’t Done Yet” (because ‘Bucket List’ makes me think of mop adverts). So far it includes:
• Visiting a lighthouse
• Learning how to whistle properly
• Eating breakfast at midnight
• Being kissed by someone who looks like they might regret it later (in a good way)
What’s on yours?
And thank you — sincerely — for what you said in your last message. I keep rereading the line about surviving quietly. It made something in my chest shift.
Now your turn: what’s the worst haircut you’ve ever had?
Yours,
Anna
P.S. The punctuation crime of the week is a handwritten sign I saw on a pub door: “All Dog’s Welcome”. I almost staged a rescue.
________________________________________
Subject: Regret-Kisses and Haircut Wounds
Date: March 10th
Anna,
You’ve just earned a gold star for “being kissed by someone who looks like they might regret it later.” Honestly, I might frame that.
My worst haircut? Easy. Age ten. Bowl cut. Home attempt. Looked like a hairy UFO had crash-landed on my head. There are photos. They are classified.
As for my own “Things I Haven’t Done Yet” list:
• Seen the northern lights
• Learned to dance without apologising after every step
• Owned a record player and played Bowie on vinyl
• Spent an entire day doing absolutely nothing, and not feeling guilty about it
Also: kissed someone under a neon sign. It feels like something you’re supposed to do at least once, right?
So, now I ask: what’s something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t told anyone? Not even yourself.
Theo
P.S. I made you a badge. It says "Official Defender of Proper Apostrophes" and comes with imaginary glitter.
________________________________________
Subject: Forbidden Wishes and Neon Kisses
Date: March 12th
Dear Theo,
I love your list. Especially the “doing nothing and not feeling guilty” bit. That feels like the kind of rebellion adulthood doesn’t prepare you for.
Something I’ve never told anyone I wanted?
To be known. Not just liked, or tolerated, or included out of habit. But known. Properly. The weird bits. The parts that don't match the wallpaper.
Also, I’ve always wanted to write letters to someone who’d actually care what I wrote. So... thank you for making that one true.
You should know I’m now picturing your bowl cut, and it is magnificent.
Here’s a challenge: tell me one thing you’d like to do with someone — but haven’t yet.
Yours,
Anna
P.S. I fully accept my glitter badge. It shall be worn with honour. And perhaps a cape.
________________________________________
Subject: Well scarved tree talker.
Date: March 13th
Anna,
You want to be known? Consider it noted — and admired.
For the record:
• I now imagine you as someone who owns several scarves, alphabetises spices, and secretly talks to trees.
• I also suspect you're the kind of person who edits text messages before sending them, even if it’s just “OK.”
But seriously — thank you for saying that. It's funny how writing like this lets the important bits slip through, isn’t it? Like the truth hides in the throwaway lines. I like your truth. It feels... familiar.
As for me — the thing I want to do with someone? Easy: split a slice of lemon meringue pie without pretending I want the smaller half.
And yes, the bowl cut was real. The damage? Lasting.
Yours in hair-related trauma,
Theo
P.S. Your cape is in production. The slogan currently reads: “Glory in Commas. Justice for Jam.” Open to edits.
________________________________________
Subject: Trains and Glitter and Everything Small
Date: March 14th
Theo,
I’ve never told anyone this, but I used to walk past this little café every Sunday and imagine sitting in it with someone who made me laugh. I never went in — it felt like tempting fate. But now I think... maybe fate’s less picky than I thought.
My perfect small moment: someone brushing their thumb across my knuckles when they think I’m not paying attention.
Also: someone noticing I’ve been quiet for too long, and not filling the silence with noise, but with presence.
You’re very good at presence, Theo. Even through pixels.
Next question: what do you miss, even if you never had it?
With a smile,
Anna
P.S. I expect that cape to have shoulder sparkles and a motto stitched into the hem. Something about corn dogs and glory.
________________________________________
Subject: Missing What’s Imagined
Date: March 16th
Anna,
You hit me right in the gut with that one.
I miss being someone’s favourite. I don’t mean loved. I mean chosen. Like, you’re the one they look for in a crowded room. Or they see something stupid and think, “God, Theo would love this.”
I miss that. Even though I’ve never had it properly.
Until maybe now.
If this is all imaginary — the glitter, the capes, the thumb brushes and train naps — then I still say it’s the best imaginary thing I’ve ever had.
You once said this is easier because we don’t know each other’s worst parts. But Anna — I think I know your best ones. And they’re already enough.
Theo
P.S. The cape motto: "In Corn We Trust. In Glitter, We Reign."
________________________________________
Subject: A Very British Suggestion
Date: July 19th
Dear Theo,
This might be the tea talking (I may have over-steeped both the leaves and my courage), but here it is:
We’ve been writing back and forth for a few months now, and while I know that’s not long in the grand scheme of things, it’s felt... well, oddly important. Comfortably odd. You feel familiar, in a way that isn’t tiring.
So I was thinking — and please don’t panic — maybe one day I could visit. Indiana, I mean. Nothing dramatic, just a cuppa in your local diner and maybe a quick inspection of Kevin, if he’s accepting visitors.
It’s only a thought. A maybe. But a nice one.
Write soon?
Anna
P.S. If we do meet, you’re not allowed to tidy your hair or wear anything serious. That’s the deal.
________________________________________
Subject: Re: Tea, Bravery, and Conditional Outfits
Date: July 20th
Anna,
I just read your message three times and smiled in ways I probably haven’t since 2019. The idea of you being here — real, three-dimensional, and walking around Ashville like you own the place — is almost too good.
I would absolutely love that. Truly.
Only... not quite yet. There’s some stuff going on here — family, work, life things. Tedious and dull and not even dramatic enough to be interesting, just... not ideal timing. But soon, I hope. Very soon, if all things go well.
Besides, I need time to prepare the proper welcome ceremony, which involves a kazoo, a glitter cannon, and a small herd of reluctant goats.
Promise me you won’t vanish before we get the chance. I’m not quite sure what I’d do with the sparkle parade without you.
More soon,
Theo
P.S. Deal accepted. No tidying. Hair must remain rebellious. Clothes must contain at least one item with a questionable slogan.
________________________________________
Subject: The Slightly Over-Planned Visit
Date: July 24th
Dear Theo,
Right. I’ve started a list. Not a serious one, mind — more like a loosely optimistic draft of “things we could do if I appeared in your town like an extremely British tornado.”
So far it includes:
• Attempting small talk with Kevin
• Finding the worst milkshake on the menu and ordering two
• Visiting anywhere that sells used books and/or very bad fridge magnets
• Sitting on a bench that faces nothing in particular and saying absolutely everything
It’s silly, I know. Maybe it’s the late-nightness of this email. Or the way your messages make me feel like the world is still full of things I haven’t ruined yet.
Anyway, no pressure. Just a list. A maybe.
Write soon?
Anna
P.S. I’ll bring Marmite. You’ve been warned.
________________________________________
Subject: Lists, Tornadoes, and You
Date: July 26th
Anna,
First: that bench plan? Perfect. That’s what I want most, I think — sitting beside you with nothing urgent to say, and everything quietly understood.
I’ve read your last message more times than I’ll admit, and I keep picturing it — the milkshake tasting, the terrible fridge magnets, the bench that faces nothing and everything.
Your visit sounds like exactly the kind of beautiful chaos I didn’t know I needed. The kind with laminated menus and questionable mustard. I want that. I do. More than I’ve wanted most things lately.
But I’ll confess something: part of me is terrified you’ll come all this way and realise I’m better in writing. That maybe the version of me you’ve come to know won’t quite hold up in daylight.
That’s not a no. It’s just a very human, very unglittery pause.
So yes — let’s still plan for it. I might just need a little more time, and a bit of grace, if you’ve got any spare. But you must promise not to run screaming when you meet me, I’ll promise to try and be as real as I’ve ever been.
You matter, Anna. More than I can say.
(Which is inconvenient, given how much I like saying things.)
Theo
P.S. Marmite update: You are seriously bringing some; do I need to warn the FBI?
________________________________________
Subject: Please Don’t Panic
Date: August 2nd
Dear Theo,
Okay, first — deep breath, don’t panic.
Nothing is set in stone. No brass band. No confetti (unless Kevin insists).
But... a thing happened.
There was this absurdly cheap flight to Chicago — last-minute cancellation, one of those once-every-five-years sort of deals — and I’ve had a few days off work pre-approved for months that I never did anything with. So I thought: why not?
So I’ve booked it. I’m flying out on the 6th.
I’m not showing up at your door or anything! Don’t worry. I’m planning to stay in the city a few days, see the bean-shaped sculpture, and pretend to understand baseball. But I thought maybe, if you had time, we could meet? Just a coffee. No pressure. No expectations. Just... two penpals. In the same place.
It’s okay to say no, or “not this time.” Truly.
But I didn’t want to let the moment slip by. You’ve become important to me, Theo. That’s probably terribly un-British to say, but there it is.
Anyway. Let me know.
I’ll be the one nervously overdressed and pretending to be fine.
Yours,
Anna
P.S. I’m definitely bringing Marmite now. Consider yourself alarmed.
________________________________________
Subject: Just Checking In
Date: August 4th
Dear Theo,
I know your last email said you were busy — and I’m sure you are — but I just wanted to check in, in case my last message got lost or buried under spam about miracle vitamins and conspiracy cookbooks.
I’m not trying to push or be a nuisance (British panic intensifies), I just... hadn’t heard back, and I’m flying out soon. I’ll be in Chicago on the 6th, like I said. Still not showing up at your door, I promise — that’s not my style. But I’d love to see you if you have even a sliver of time. If not, I’ll make do with American diner coffee and a highly suspect walking tour.
Anyway. I hope everything’s okay.
Write soon, if you can.
Yours — slightly nervously,
Anna
P.S. Kevin isn’t mad at me, is he?
________________________________________
Subject: Boarding Soon
Date: August 6th
Dear Theo,
I’m at the airport now — just about to board. I know you haven’t written back, and I’m trying not to spiral into full British meltdown mode, but I wanted to send one more message, just in case.
I’ve booked a small hotel in the city — I thought that might be best. I didn’t want to assume or pressure you or make things awkward if I overstepped somehow. I know this whole thing might feel like too much, too fast, or too soon... and if that’s the case, it’s okay. Truly. I’ll understand. You don’t owe me anything.
But if I haven’t completely ruined it — if you’re still willing — I’d love to see you. Even just for a few minutes. Even just to prove we were both real.
I hope I haven’t blown it.
Yours (hopefully),
Anna
P.S. I packed Marmite. That’s got to count for something.
________________________________________
From: Mark Morgan mark.morgan@midwestmail.net
To: Anna Westbrook
Subject: From Theo
Date: August 6th, 14:02 CST
Anna,
Please take a taxi to 413 Ash Hollow Road, just outside Ashville. I’ll explain everything when you arrive.
Mark
________________________________________
The taxi pulled up slowly to a white wooden house with peeling shutters and a porch that had probably seen better decades. Anna stepped out, gripping the handle of her small suitcase like it might anchor her to something solid. The air was thick with humidity and the strange quiet of rural places.
Mark was waiting by the door.
He looked like Theo — same jaw, same way of holding still when emotion trembled underneath.
“You’re Anna,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She nodded.
He opened the door without another word and led her inside. The house smelled like lemon polish and memory.
Mark handed her a sealed envelope — thick, slightly bent, with her name written in Theo’s handwriting. Just Anna, nothing else. No date. No subject line.
“I’ll give you some space,” Mark said softly, and left her in a room with a creaky armchair and a mug of coffee already waiting on the table beside it.
She sat.
She opened the envelope.
________________________________________
Dear Anna,
If you’re reading this, I’ve officially lost our game of “who can reply faster.” Typical. You always were better with timing.
I’m so sorry I didn’t write back. I wanted to — every day. I started a dozen emails and never hit send. Not because I didn’t want to see you. I did. So much. Too much, maybe.
But the truth is: I’ve been running out of time. I didn’t want you to see me like that, tired, thinned out, no glitter cannon in sight. I wanted you to remember the me who talked to a toaster and defended corn dogs. The one who made you laugh, even if just once a day.
I didn’t lie. I just didn’t let the whole truth out. You gave me something I didn’t think I’d get again: the joy of being chosen. Of being known. Of mattering to someone who saw me, not the diagnosis, not the slow fade. Just me.
You once said you wanted someone to read your words and cared. I did. I do. Every line.
I hope you’re not angry. I hope you know how much you helped. You made my last few months feel full of colour, of sparkle, of meaning. I looked forward to you. Every time.
So here’s my final question — the only one I’ll never get to hear answered: what will you do with the days I couldn’t have?
Whatever it is... I hope it’s beautiful.
Yours, always,
Theo
P.S. Kevin says thank you. He’s retired now. We both are.
Subject: Penpal Programme — Hello from London
Date: March 3rd
Dear Theodore,
I hope I’m sending this to the right address. I was matched with you through the CrossWords Penpal Exchange (cultural, not criminal — despite the name), and you seemed like a safe bet: no missing person alerts or ransom demands attached. Yet.
I’ll keep this brief, as first letters are awkward and I’ve already rewritten this sentence four times. I live in London — actual London, not the one in Ontario or Ohio — and I signed up for this programme as a way to distract myself from becoming That Person who talks to her kettle. So far, it’s working.
A few facts to start us off:
• I’m a translator, which means I mostly argue with commas for a living.
• I like secondhand bookshops, misused apostrophes, and any weather that allows a scarf.
• I do not enjoy bananas, karaoke, or unsolicited life advice in queues.
How about you?
Kind regards,
Anna
________________________________________
To: Anna Westbrook a.westbrook.uk@email.com
Subject: Re: Penpal Programme — Hello from London
Date: March 4th
Dear Anna-from-actual-London,
You had me at “ransom demands.” I knew this penpal thing would pay off.
Nice to meet you — I’m Theo. I live in a town called Ashville, Indiana, which you’ve never heard of and absolutely don’t need to pretend otherwise. We’re famous for... nothing. We do, however, have an annual Corn Dog Parade and a gas station that sells three kinds of peanut brittle. So. Culture.
Quick fire back at you:
• I work as a part-time copy editor for a small press, which is less glamorous than it sounds and exactly as sleep-depriving.
• I enjoy bad movies, old diner booths, and making lists I never complete.
• I once entered a pie-eating contest and won nothing but shame and indigestion.
• Last month, my brother tried to give himself a "retro" haircut and emerged looking like a disgraced roadie from a forgotten hair-metal band. We're still not speaking of it. The photos are being held as emotional blackmail.
I approve of your banana aversion and support your apostrophe agenda. I, too, talk to appliances (my toaster’s called Kevin). If you write back, tell me about the best book you’ve read that no one else seems to know.
Looking forward to it,
Theo
________________________________________
To: Theo Morgan
Subject: Re: Corn Dogs and Apostrophes
Date: March 6th
Dear Theo (and Kevin, esteemed toaster),
I must begin by confessing ignorance. Despite your claims, I have absolutely no idea what a corn dog is. My imagination is offering only two possibilities:
1. A parade of dogs wearing collars made from corn.
2. Something corn-related pretending to be food.
The only time I ever saw one in real life — and I use that phrase loosely — was last year in a dimly lit American diner near Leicester Square. I ordered one out of sheer curiosity. It arrived skewered, suspiciously shiny, and tasting like someone had deep-fried an identity crisis.
So please. Enlighten me. Is the corn dog proud of what it is?
Also: thank you for writing back. I didn’t realise how much I needed something to look forward to in the inbox. Your brother’s “bold” mullet made me snort tea onto my keyboard, so you’re now financially responsible for any stickiness-related repairs.
As for your question — what I wish someone would ask me? I think I wish someone would ask why I stayed so long in something that made me small. No one ever does. They just assume I was foolish, or too nice, or not paying attention. Maybe I was all three. But mostly, I was just tired.
Anyway, this got heavier than I intended. I promise next time I’ll write about something light and inconsequential, like punctuation crimes or underwhelming sandwiches.
Your turn: what’s the most ridiculous hill you’re willing to die on?
Yours in corn-related confusion,
Anna
________________________________________
To: Anna Westbrook
Subject: Re: Your Corn Dog Awakening
Date: March 7th
Anna,
Your description of the corn dog as “a deep-fried identity crisis” is now canon and must be preserved in the Smithsonian.
To clarify: a corn dog is a hot dog, on a stick, dipped in cornmeal batter and fried until it questions all its choices. It’s often eaten at fairs by people wearing hats shaped like other food. The key to enjoying it is not asking whether you’re enjoying it.
That said, I’m oddly touched by your bewilderment. The idea of you encountering your first corn dog in a West End diner like it was some exotic encounter — that’s poetry, honestly.
Thank you for what you wrote. Not the corn dog part — the other bit. You don’t sound foolish. You sound like someone who survived something quietly. That’s no small thing.
Now. The hill I will die on:
Cereal is not soup.
I don’t care what the philosophers say. If it’s cold, sugary, and comes with a prize at the bottom, it’s a breakfast, not a broth.
Your move.
Theo (and Kevin, who also disapproves of cereal discourse)
________________________________________
Subject: Cereal Crimes and Secret Joys
Date: March 9th
Theo (and Kevin),
You’ll be relieved to know I agree — cereal is not soup, no matter what the postmodernists claim. I hereby join your crusade against culinary taxonomy gone rogue.
I’ve also made a list titled “Things I Haven’t Done Yet” (because ‘Bucket List’ makes me think of mop adverts). So far it includes:
• Visiting a lighthouse
• Learning how to whistle properly
• Eating breakfast at midnight
• Being kissed by someone who looks like they might regret it later (in a good way)
What’s on yours?
And thank you — sincerely — for what you said in your last message. I keep rereading the line about surviving quietly. It made something in my chest shift.
Now your turn: what’s the worst haircut you’ve ever had?
Yours,
Anna
P.S. The punctuation crime of the week is a handwritten sign I saw on a pub door: “All Dog’s Welcome”. I almost staged a rescue.
________________________________________
Subject: Regret-Kisses and Haircut Wounds
Date: March 10th
Anna,
You’ve just earned a gold star for “being kissed by someone who looks like they might regret it later.” Honestly, I might frame that.
My worst haircut? Easy. Age ten. Bowl cut. Home attempt. Looked like a hairy UFO had crash-landed on my head. There are photos. They are classified.
As for my own “Things I Haven’t Done Yet” list:
• Seen the northern lights
• Learned to dance without apologising after every step
• Owned a record player and played Bowie on vinyl
• Spent an entire day doing absolutely nothing, and not feeling guilty about it
Also: kissed someone under a neon sign. It feels like something you’re supposed to do at least once, right?
So, now I ask: what’s something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t told anyone? Not even yourself.
Theo
P.S. I made you a badge. It says "Official Defender of Proper Apostrophes" and comes with imaginary glitter.
________________________________________
Subject: Forbidden Wishes and Neon Kisses
Date: March 12th
Dear Theo,
I love your list. Especially the “doing nothing and not feeling guilty” bit. That feels like the kind of rebellion adulthood doesn’t prepare you for.
Something I’ve never told anyone I wanted?
To be known. Not just liked, or tolerated, or included out of habit. But known. Properly. The weird bits. The parts that don't match the wallpaper.
Also, I’ve always wanted to write letters to someone who’d actually care what I wrote. So... thank you for making that one true.
You should know I’m now picturing your bowl cut, and it is magnificent.
Here’s a challenge: tell me one thing you’d like to do with someone — but haven’t yet.
Yours,
Anna
P.S. I fully accept my glitter badge. It shall be worn with honour. And perhaps a cape.
________________________________________
Subject: Well scarved tree talker.
Date: March 13th
Anna,
You want to be known? Consider it noted — and admired.
For the record:
• I now imagine you as someone who owns several scarves, alphabetises spices, and secretly talks to trees.
• I also suspect you're the kind of person who edits text messages before sending them, even if it’s just “OK.”
But seriously — thank you for saying that. It's funny how writing like this lets the important bits slip through, isn’t it? Like the truth hides in the throwaway lines. I like your truth. It feels... familiar.
As for me — the thing I want to do with someone? Easy: split a slice of lemon meringue pie without pretending I want the smaller half.
And yes, the bowl cut was real. The damage? Lasting.
Yours in hair-related trauma,
Theo
P.S. Your cape is in production. The slogan currently reads: “Glory in Commas. Justice for Jam.” Open to edits.
________________________________________
Subject: Trains and Glitter and Everything Small
Date: March 14th
Theo,
I’ve never told anyone this, but I used to walk past this little café every Sunday and imagine sitting in it with someone who made me laugh. I never went in — it felt like tempting fate. But now I think... maybe fate’s less picky than I thought.
My perfect small moment: someone brushing their thumb across my knuckles when they think I’m not paying attention.
Also: someone noticing I’ve been quiet for too long, and not filling the silence with noise, but with presence.
You’re very good at presence, Theo. Even through pixels.
Next question: what do you miss, even if you never had it?
With a smile,
Anna
P.S. I expect that cape to have shoulder sparkles and a motto stitched into the hem. Something about corn dogs and glory.
________________________________________
Subject: Missing What’s Imagined
Date: March 16th
Anna,
You hit me right in the gut with that one.
I miss being someone’s favourite. I don’t mean loved. I mean chosen. Like, you’re the one they look for in a crowded room. Or they see something stupid and think, “God, Theo would love this.”
I miss that. Even though I’ve never had it properly.
Until maybe now.
If this is all imaginary — the glitter, the capes, the thumb brushes and train naps — then I still say it’s the best imaginary thing I’ve ever had.
You once said this is easier because we don’t know each other’s worst parts. But Anna — I think I know your best ones. And they’re already enough.
Theo
P.S. The cape motto: "In Corn We Trust. In Glitter, We Reign."
________________________________________
Subject: A Very British Suggestion
Date: July 19th
Dear Theo,
This might be the tea talking (I may have over-steeped both the leaves and my courage), but here it is:
We’ve been writing back and forth for a few months now, and while I know that’s not long in the grand scheme of things, it’s felt... well, oddly important. Comfortably odd. You feel familiar, in a way that isn’t tiring.
So I was thinking — and please don’t panic — maybe one day I could visit. Indiana, I mean. Nothing dramatic, just a cuppa in your local diner and maybe a quick inspection of Kevin, if he’s accepting visitors.
It’s only a thought. A maybe. But a nice one.
Write soon?
Anna
P.S. If we do meet, you’re not allowed to tidy your hair or wear anything serious. That’s the deal.
________________________________________
Subject: Re: Tea, Bravery, and Conditional Outfits
Date: July 20th
Anna,
I just read your message three times and smiled in ways I probably haven’t since 2019. The idea of you being here — real, three-dimensional, and walking around Ashville like you own the place — is almost too good.
I would absolutely love that. Truly.
Only... not quite yet. There’s some stuff going on here — family, work, life things. Tedious and dull and not even dramatic enough to be interesting, just... not ideal timing. But soon, I hope. Very soon, if all things go well.
Besides, I need time to prepare the proper welcome ceremony, which involves a kazoo, a glitter cannon, and a small herd of reluctant goats.
Promise me you won’t vanish before we get the chance. I’m not quite sure what I’d do with the sparkle parade without you.
More soon,
Theo
P.S. Deal accepted. No tidying. Hair must remain rebellious. Clothes must contain at least one item with a questionable slogan.
________________________________________
Subject: The Slightly Over-Planned Visit
Date: July 24th
Dear Theo,
Right. I’ve started a list. Not a serious one, mind — more like a loosely optimistic draft of “things we could do if I appeared in your town like an extremely British tornado.”
So far it includes:
• Attempting small talk with Kevin
• Finding the worst milkshake on the menu and ordering two
• Visiting anywhere that sells used books and/or very bad fridge magnets
• Sitting on a bench that faces nothing in particular and saying absolutely everything
It’s silly, I know. Maybe it’s the late-nightness of this email. Or the way your messages make me feel like the world is still full of things I haven’t ruined yet.
Anyway, no pressure. Just a list. A maybe.
Write soon?
Anna
P.S. I’ll bring Marmite. You’ve been warned.
________________________________________
Subject: Lists, Tornadoes, and You
Date: July 26th
Anna,
First: that bench plan? Perfect. That’s what I want most, I think — sitting beside you with nothing urgent to say, and everything quietly understood.
I’ve read your last message more times than I’ll admit, and I keep picturing it — the milkshake tasting, the terrible fridge magnets, the bench that faces nothing and everything.
Your visit sounds like exactly the kind of beautiful chaos I didn’t know I needed. The kind with laminated menus and questionable mustard. I want that. I do. More than I’ve wanted most things lately.
But I’ll confess something: part of me is terrified you’ll come all this way and realise I’m better in writing. That maybe the version of me you’ve come to know won’t quite hold up in daylight.
That’s not a no. It’s just a very human, very unglittery pause.
So yes — let’s still plan for it. I might just need a little more time, and a bit of grace, if you’ve got any spare. But you must promise not to run screaming when you meet me, I’ll promise to try and be as real as I’ve ever been.
You matter, Anna. More than I can say.
(Which is inconvenient, given how much I like saying things.)
Theo
P.S. Marmite update: You are seriously bringing some; do I need to warn the FBI?
________________________________________
Subject: Please Don’t Panic
Date: August 2nd
Dear Theo,
Okay, first — deep breath, don’t panic.
Nothing is set in stone. No brass band. No confetti (unless Kevin insists).
But... a thing happened.
There was this absurdly cheap flight to Chicago — last-minute cancellation, one of those once-every-five-years sort of deals — and I’ve had a few days off work pre-approved for months that I never did anything with. So I thought: why not?
So I’ve booked it. I’m flying out on the 6th.
I’m not showing up at your door or anything! Don’t worry. I’m planning to stay in the city a few days, see the bean-shaped sculpture, and pretend to understand baseball. But I thought maybe, if you had time, we could meet? Just a coffee. No pressure. No expectations. Just... two penpals. In the same place.
It’s okay to say no, or “not this time.” Truly.
But I didn’t want to let the moment slip by. You’ve become important to me, Theo. That’s probably terribly un-British to say, but there it is.
Anyway. Let me know.
I’ll be the one nervously overdressed and pretending to be fine.
Yours,
Anna
P.S. I’m definitely bringing Marmite now. Consider yourself alarmed.
________________________________________
Subject: Just Checking In
Date: August 4th
Dear Theo,
I know your last email said you were busy — and I’m sure you are — but I just wanted to check in, in case my last message got lost or buried under spam about miracle vitamins and conspiracy cookbooks.
I’m not trying to push or be a nuisance (British panic intensifies), I just... hadn’t heard back, and I’m flying out soon. I’ll be in Chicago on the 6th, like I said. Still not showing up at your door, I promise — that’s not my style. But I’d love to see you if you have even a sliver of time. If not, I’ll make do with American diner coffee and a highly suspect walking tour.
Anyway. I hope everything’s okay.
Write soon, if you can.
Yours — slightly nervously,
Anna
P.S. Kevin isn’t mad at me, is he?
________________________________________
Subject: Boarding Soon
Date: August 6th
Dear Theo,
I’m at the airport now — just about to board. I know you haven’t written back, and I’m trying not to spiral into full British meltdown mode, but I wanted to send one more message, just in case.
I’ve booked a small hotel in the city — I thought that might be best. I didn’t want to assume or pressure you or make things awkward if I overstepped somehow. I know this whole thing might feel like too much, too fast, or too soon... and if that’s the case, it’s okay. Truly. I’ll understand. You don’t owe me anything.
But if I haven’t completely ruined it — if you’re still willing — I’d love to see you. Even just for a few minutes. Even just to prove we were both real.
I hope I haven’t blown it.
Yours (hopefully),
Anna
P.S. I packed Marmite. That’s got to count for something.
________________________________________
From: Mark Morgan mark.morgan@midwestmail.net
To: Anna Westbrook
Subject: From Theo
Date: August 6th, 14:02 CST
Anna,
Please take a taxi to 413 Ash Hollow Road, just outside Ashville. I’ll explain everything when you arrive.
Mark
________________________________________
The taxi pulled up slowly to a white wooden house with peeling shutters and a porch that had probably seen better decades. Anna stepped out, gripping the handle of her small suitcase like it might anchor her to something solid. The air was thick with humidity and the strange quiet of rural places.
Mark was waiting by the door.
He looked like Theo — same jaw, same way of holding still when emotion trembled underneath.
“You’re Anna,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She nodded.
He opened the door without another word and led her inside. The house smelled like lemon polish and memory.
Mark handed her a sealed envelope — thick, slightly bent, with her name written in Theo’s handwriting. Just Anna, nothing else. No date. No subject line.
“I’ll give you some space,” Mark said softly, and left her in a room with a creaky armchair and a mug of coffee already waiting on the table beside it.
She sat.
She opened the envelope.
________________________________________
Dear Anna,
If you’re reading this, I’ve officially lost our game of “who can reply faster.” Typical. You always were better with timing.
I’m so sorry I didn’t write back. I wanted to — every day. I started a dozen emails and never hit send. Not because I didn’t want to see you. I did. So much. Too much, maybe.
But the truth is: I’ve been running out of time. I didn’t want you to see me like that, tired, thinned out, no glitter cannon in sight. I wanted you to remember the me who talked to a toaster and defended corn dogs. The one who made you laugh, even if just once a day.
I didn’t lie. I just didn’t let the whole truth out. You gave me something I didn’t think I’d get again: the joy of being chosen. Of being known. Of mattering to someone who saw me, not the diagnosis, not the slow fade. Just me.
You once said you wanted someone to read your words and cared. I did. I do. Every line.
I hope you’re not angry. I hope you know how much you helped. You made my last few months feel full of colour, of sparkle, of meaning. I looked forward to you. Every time.
So here’s my final question — the only one I’ll never get to hear answered: what will you do with the days I couldn’t have?
Whatever it is... I hope it’s beautiful.
Yours, always,
Theo
P.S. Kevin says thank you. He’s retired now. We both are.
4/1/2026
The Words That Got to Me
Every single freaking one. Is there ANY style of writing that you can't do to perfection?
Suggestions / Possible Tweaks
Change anything, and our friendship's over
Okay, I am in the waiting area of a windshield repair/replace shop, and I am keeping my head down because (a) I am crying like a Middle School girl who just got stood up on Prom Night and (b) I am having all I can do to read my damn phone because tears keep smearing and distorting the screen of my phone. This story is perfection. No hyperbole. I loved the premise of it, how these two adorable, funny, shy-but-quite-surprisingly socially adept people connected and enjoyed each other. I loved being privy to their burgeoning relationship and ruminating about how easily they could ask (and answer) the deep, hard questions that arose. I loved the insouciance of their syntax and felt so excited when Anna so captivatingly explained that she had taken the leap when a once-in-five-years airfare deal fell into her lap. And then, when her texts went unanswered? Oy. I'm ashamed to admit: I thought the worst of Theo: that he was married, a catfisher, or an expert-level game-player. And then you did that Tim Magretts consummate writer thing you do and twisted the plot - and my heart - into a pretzel. An absolutely bereft pretzel. I hope to gawd you are going to be submitting this masterpiece somewhere, oh gifted one. It deserves to be read on the world stage I will never forget this story. Signed, Your #1 Fan Xoxoxo