Chapter one

Of course, there was a very, very small chance that whoever she sent the letters to would actually write back, but Celia had promised herself that she would only send five. Five letters. Five chances. See if the odds were in her favour.

It wasn't like she believed in faith, but this wasn't an easy decision and she felt like she had to be able to hold onto something. If it was meant to be, someone would write back. If it wasn't, she would go back to leading her old life and stop questioning everything she knew. It sounded so much easier than it actually was.

She had written every letter by hand, carefully. First impressions were important, but she had to try out new handwritings, because her neat, usual sign would immeadiatly make clear that she was a girl, and that was one of the things she wanted to avoid. There should be no judgements in this conversations that she would have. There shouldn't be, just for once.

All of it had actually started with her looking on Google Maps, pointing out the places she wanted to go to once she had the money. And once she was eighteen years old, which would still be two very long years. Honestly, Celia couldn't wait to get out of here. Everybody always thought that New York was the big city, the place everything could happen, but for her, it had gotten boring. Way too boring. The only thing that hadn't made her stand up like this before was the thing she cared about most. It was safe out here. She knew every inch of the street she had lived in for sixteen years. She had so many memories of this city, of growing up. Of her first ballet class and the first time she broke a bone. It felt like she would be leaving all of that behind if she left. Like it would be done, finished, a part of her life she could never ever return to.

No. That wasn't what she wanted. She didn't like the definitive tone of finished. She didn't want anything to end. And going to new places would mean seeing new things, having to do things differently. What if she did them wrong? Because even though the idea was so alluring, there was no way that she would be able to handle making so many mistakes. That was the safeness of New York. It was the stable factor in her life, the thing she knew. She needed that stable factor. Or at least, she thought she needed it. Just dreaming about leaving seemed like a much better option than actually going.

And then the idea started to grow. Was there a way for her to explore but not go? A way for her to look for new things, discover other cultures, worlds, even, but not have to go. Yes. There was. Letters. E-mails were supposed to be the new way to keep in touch with people in other places, but letters felt so much better. And if the other person would actually take the effort to write back... Wouldn't that mean something too?

So she had started to write. Or at least try to write, because that hadn't been as easy as it seemed. Every part of the day, single sentences that she though had to go into the letter popped up in her mind and a minute later she'd forgotten them because she didn't have anything to write on. And with that came the fact that the letter had to be good. Not perfect, Celia didn't expect perfect anymore. But it had to represent her, it had to be tempting to write back, it had to be adventurous and mysterious at the same time. She wanted people to want to write to her, not to feel like they had to. She doubted there would be people like that, but just in case...

She wasn't happy with the result she got, but she was content. It was good enough for now. It was fine. It was something. And she knew that if she would keep changing them, in the end, she would never send any of them. That was not what she wanted.

And there they went, into the dark hole, where they would get lost between letters and postcards. For a second after, she felt like she could scream, because she needed to get them back, but while she was walking home - her cool-face on, of course - she calmed down and now, she actually felt relieved. She'd done it. Just before she arrived home, she realized something else. Posting the letters hadn't been the worst part. The worst part was what was coming up. The waiting.