Guilt lay like a brick in the pit of her stomach as she read every word, sloppily crafted by her own hand. What was she thinking last night? If Emma had read this—

She quickly darted to her side table, double backing to retrieve the tossed away pen before returning and finding more scrap, quickly scribbling down the words with such a need that even in her sober state the pen leaked through the page.

Emma, I am so sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything I said to you last night. It's not your fault. None of it is your fault. I love you so much. Just please. Please come home.


The next letter Regina wrote was under the careful watch of Dr. Hopper four days later. She was sober and clear-headed, and though it was no sonnet meant to inspire those just like her, it was enough.

January 2 2007

Emma,

Dr. Hopper is watching me write this, so I promise I won't yell at you again. Apparently he doesn't trust me to write these letters on my own anymore. He insists that talking to you, genuine conversation, so to speak, will help. It's a new year, and I promised myself and Henry that I would be better. It's funny. I can already hear your claims that I'm 'awesome', but truth be told, I haven't been.

You were the first person I let into my life in a long time, and I will never forget that. I don't know where you are. I don't know if you're alive or dead. I don't know if I'll ever get to see you again. I don't know a lot of things. I don't like not knowing. That terrifies me. It's still terrifying that you've been gone this long. I've never found myself to be dependent on others, but with you it's different. Somehow you became my best friend, and I'm sure we've said as much, but I regret that I don't get to tell you that again. I wish I could see you one more time. I wish I could kiss you and hold you and watch you play with Henry. He misses you too. I think he may actually miss you more, but that's impossible.

I mentioned Dr. Hopper. He's been helping me deal with my grief. I hate using that word because it implies you're not coming back, and I want so badly to believe that one day I'll open up the door and you'll be standing there on the other side. Deep down inside that hope will never die down, but right now I must be able to function without seeing your ghost everywhere.

I'm supposed to write down a good memory we had together, what made it happy, and why. It's hard to pinpoint one. I don't think I've ever smiled as much as I do when I'm around you and Henry. But remember when we took Henry school supply shopping? You looked so scared asking me if we could go. You were helping Henry to try on new sneakers while I went off to find a few more jeans for him, and I came back and you were kneeling by him as he perched on top of the stool. He kept putting his socked foot in your face, and you would put on a grimace and say he had stinky feet, and you both laughed and did it all over again. It was nice. Perfect.

I've always felt like you were part of our family, but I wish we could have solidified that. I think you might have wanted that too.

Love,

Regina


The weekly letters Regina had scheduled herself to produce were a struggle at first. How many times could she tell Emma she loved her, missed her, wanted her to come home? Not enough actually, and she said as much in her latest. But one morning in February when a dream so vivid left Regina to be particularly wanting, she wrote to Emma, outside of her weekly schedule though she was sure the doctor wouldn't fault her for that as the last tingling sensations of her dream danced across her mind.

I miss your touch, Emma. Whenever we walked, you would put your hand on my back and turn slightly toward me, like you could shield me from any attack or backsplash from any puddle. You were sturdy whenever we sat in the living room next to each other, propping each other up. I'm not much for public affection, but our hands would just join naturally, whether I was pulling you out of the kitchen or you were walking me home from work.

But your kiss, the way your lips turned up in a smile just half a second before they touched mine, it sent butterflies to my stomach. I know I'm not the most approachable woman, even now, but it amazed me that I could make you happy, that you were happy to kiss me.


That letter spurred on more, and her Saturday letters turned into sharing events with the phantom soldier whenever the need fit. Henry had a loose tooth. Regina made lasagna and she'd save her a piece. Regina pressed a single rose bulb into a paper on Valentine's Day. They turned the living room into a fort for a week during Henry's spring break. More importantly, they both missed her so goddamn much.

A box in her home office, hidden on the top shelf of her bookcase between a picture frame of herself and Henry and one of Regina, fifteen years old and breaking out but smiling politely at the camera as she stood between her parents, kept secret the letters she was writing near daily. It was addictive, in a way, to write to Emma, but Regina was careful not to use that term whenever she met with Archie. Lethargic, helpful, those were most appropriate. Because when she wrote, she could pretend that in time, all the letters hidden inside that box on the top shelf would one day be answered. It was crazy, she knew, but it was all she had for now.

April 7 2007

My love,

Henry's turning six soon. Isn't that just amazing and awful? Awesome, even. You're right, it does sound better when you say it. I remember bringing him home for the first time. He was nothing more than six-weeks old and could fit in the crook of my arm, and for a second I thought I made the biggest mistake of my life because who was I to think that I could raise a child. I can't believe I could ever think that because he's the best thing that's ever happened to me.

He's growing up.

He came home last week claiming he had a girlfriend, and I nearly had a heart attack. She's a friend who is a girl and they share his crackers but they don't hold hands because apparently that is yucky.

He asks about you. All the time. Most times I don't know what to tell him. It's more him mentioning your name, saying you like this or you said that. I don't know if he fully grasps what's happening, but I envy his innocence.

I wish you were here. Wherever you are, I love you. Your family loves you.

Regina slid the letter into an envelope, pressing her lips to the flap as she did with every other letter before it, sealing it with her kiss more sturdier than wax. With her address inked into the top left corner and Emma's unit prominently on display in the centre —a habit, of course — she mailed the letter into its home in the box of her top shelf with a heavy sigh.

A knock sounded on her door. Her heart had stopped skipping long ago, wishing for Emma's return, but Regina walked briskly to the door nonetheless since Henry had a habit of announcing her presence even when it was unwanted. Luckily her son was napping in his room, tired from a morning of apple picking, which left Regina free to glance upon her guest, surprised at the intrusion.

August, clean shaven and a boyish smile on his face, stood on her porch carrying an oversized duffel in one hand, a crate in the other, and a stuffed rucksack nestled on his back. She was momentarily stunned by the man she hadn't seen in over a year, but a flash of yellow caught her eye, and she looked past him to see Emma's beetle parked in her driveway. No. It couldn't be. Regina held her breath and stared wide-eyed at the vehicle before moving to August for an explanation.

He had the decency to look apologetic as he motioned his head inside. "Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, Regina stepped back and allowed him over the threshold. He settled his duffle, crate, and bag by the front steps of the foyer before turning to Regina and holding his arms out hopefully.

She glared at him, arms crossed over her chest. Her silence stewed long enough that his arms faltered. Putting him out of his misery, she rolled her eyes and stepped into his embrace, letting his arms wrap around her back. "What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't miss my favourite nephew's birthday."

"You came back." There was a hesitant hint of amazement in her voice.

He nodded and kissed her forehead before bending over and fiddling with the latch of the crate. "I missed you guys too much."

"The bug?" Regina's voice was tight, though she willed herself to calm down. Breathe, Regina, Dr. Hopper always reminded her. Don't forget to breathe.

"I couldn't leave it there," he muttered. "Maybe Henry can have it when he turns sixteen."

"That monstrosity?" She asked fondly, squinting when suddenly the latch was opened and a familiar black and white cat bounded out of the cage. "Is that—"

"I couldn't leave him there either." Figaro curled around August's legs, and he scooped up the cat and held him up to Regina who looked a mixture of amused and horrified. "I didn't steal him. I bought him off Mrs. Priviterra. He's up to date with his shots and everything."

"What are you doing, August?" Regina asked, helping him lift his rucksack. "Where did you go?"

"Travelling," he explained releasing Figaro and letting him wander the new mansion. "Gathering intel for my new book."

"You're writing a book," the brunette repeated flatly.

He dug through the bag Regina was holding up, and she couldn't help but notice the sleeve of a token red leather jacket peeking out when August recovered some postcards.