All Yours
Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that stared straight into the camera like he was daring the world to blink first.
I wrote a stupid letter: Hi, my name is Riley, I am a senior, I like books and coffee, how are you?
He wrote back three pages—tight, angry handwriting that somehow still felt careful. Told me about growing up rough, about protecting his little sister, about how the system chews up men like him. Called me “little girl” at the end like it was natural.
I wrote again. And again.
The letters got longer. Dirtier. He asked what I wore to bed. I told him. He told me what he’d do if he was there. I sent pictures—nothing naked at first, just me in sundresses, biting my lip. Then more. Then ever