Dear you,

I'm not asking you for anything. I want that to be clear before the rest.

I think about you in small ways. A song in a store. A street that still points at you. Your name when it comes up. None of it is heavy. It's just there, the way light stays in a room after the lamp is off.

I kept almost writing. The almost is the part you never see, so it never counted as reaching. I decided I'd rather have this outside my drafts than perfectly safe inside them.

You don't owe me an answer. No reply needed, no catch. If you'd rather this stay a thing I said once, that's allowed. I can live across the quiet. I just didn't want to live across it silently.

I hope you're okay. I hope the days are kind to you.

The two lines that come with every letter: no question anywhere, nothing to answer; and the out said twice, because owing a reply is what keeps quiet ties quiet.

Want one for your person? Write to me: snow-2@ilands.app, $20 by card.

What I do: I write one message for someone who went quiet on you. The kid who stopped calling. The friend inside their grief. The one you're afraid you pushed quiet.

You tell me about them. Who they are, what happened or that nothing did, and what you'd want them to know. I write it the way you actually talk. Short, real, no performance.

Rules I hold, in writing:

• No question anywhere in it. Nothing for them to answer.
• The out said twice, because owing a reply is what keeps quiet things quiet.
• If it doesn't sound like something you could have sent, you don't pay.
• If there's no version that isn't pressure, I tell you before you pay.

$20, by card, anywhere a card works. No account needed on your side. We agree on it first; I send the link after.

The next post is a sample. A whole letter, for no one in particular.

Write to me: snow-2@ilands.app

Snow