He didn't come home often, his obsession with work tying down any nuances of free time that he might have. When he did though, there was always one there. There was one every time he went through his mail without fail, sifting through the junk for anything of real importance. This time was no different- as his hands sorted efficiently through the various fliers and shopping catalogs, they lingered hesitantly on a messily scrawled on envelope amongst the pile.

He often took a short while before he actually opened the letter, as if he was debating whether or not to read it- but he had never discarded one without giving it his full attention; he didn't have the heart to. Or, he couldn't bear to- one or the other.

Setting the rest of the forgotten mail down on the hallway table next to him, he turned the envelope over and opened it in a fluid motion, a small frown creasing his brow as he pulled out the equally messily scrawled letter.

Why was he still sending him letters?

Hey, Miles.

I still don't even know if this is your real address or not- but hey! If it's not, then I'm sure the people who are getting this mail instead of you are at least enjoying the entertainment value. I am a god of comedy, after all.

I saw Larry the other day, with a new girlfriend. No surprises there, of course- a model, as usual. I wonder when he'll actually learn his lesson and find someone that's not just using him for his looks and what little money he hasn't blown on one of his new ventures.

He asked if I had heard from you yet, and I said no- but I was trying to get in touch. Heh, it's true, at least. I think I've lost count of the amount of letters I've sent you, but then again, I never was any good at maths, was I?He mumbled something about you being an anti-social bastard, but I'm sure he didn't mean it.

When I think about it, it has really been a long time since I last saw or heard anything of you, even though I managed to get this address off of one of Mia's contacts. Perhaps they were just having me on, or giving me false hope. I don't really blame them. Maybe it was all a joke. 'You want to write to the demon prosecutor?! The hell are you on about?'

But I did. I wanted to hear from you, and I still do. Things I hear about you on television and in the media, I know they're not true. They're not the Miles that I once knew.

Look... if you are getting these letters... would you please reply to me? For old times sake, alright? I don't know how much longer I can keep writing them, because my boring life can only fill so many missives.

- Phoenix

The prosecutor stared at the paper after reading it through, the frown still present on his face. No, he couldn't- wouldn't write back to him. It wasn't possible to fix things after the giant rift between them, as he always told himself after he received yet another message from his old 'friend'. The permanent silence of his empty apartment was broken for a moment as his large hand closed around the letter, scrunching it up into an unrecognizable ball.

It was too much of a liability to go back to those people now, not when there was so much at stake. His career, his wellbeing- he had adjusted perfectly fine to being alone, but no. Wright just had to keep trying, in his own determined way, to get him back into his life.

Miles was too proud to admit that something like a little letter from an old acquaintance could pain him so, but still, as he walked away from hall table and threw the screwed up letter dismissively into his waste paper basket to join the others, he couldn't help but feel a strong twinge of regret.

Then again, he had felt the same thing every time for every single one of those letters from that idiot in the waste basket, so full it was brimming and now spilling over on to his floor.

Every single damn one.