The day began slowly for Myka, an odd occurrence after a two-week-long onslaught of early-morning calls and crises. For the first time in weeks, Myka was able to settle into her favorite armchair in the dusty light of dawn with her tea and a book.

Early rising was a habit that came in and out of her life like tides, beginning after a few of the larger fights with her parents in high school and college. Then, it only lasted a few days, and each day she slept in a little more until she was back to normal. There were a few more high periods during her time in the Secret Service, and then Sam died. That time, it was months before her eyes opened after the sun's.

Early-morning Myka had resurfaced at various points throughout her time at the Warehouse, but usually only for a few days at a time. After Helena's betrayal, though, she had almost come to consider the change permanent before she finally managed to return to what Pete called "sane people sleeping." Boone had, of course, ruined that streak.

She curled the hand holding her hug into her chest to absorb its warmth just as she soaked up the words on the delicate pages in front of her. She had trailed her fingers delicately over the familiar spines of the books on her shelves before coming to rest them on that particular morning's magnetic work: the Complete Works of Shakespeare. Of course, Artie had scoffed that he did not know how they could call it 'complete' in good conscious before looking nervous and clamming up. Myka still had not gotten the whole story from him, but she knew she'd get it out of him eventually.

The Bard held a special place in her heart, as she imagined he did for many bookworms. Though her brain often felt on fire with synapses connecting the words to nearly everything in her life, since her return from Boone she found that every metaphor, simile, and sentiment seemed to fit only one thing in her life. This realization was a small thought that seemed destined to lodge in the back of her mind until something knocked it loose. Until then, she was unwilling to deal with it.

"Myka?"

She looked up from the pages, startled to see a bed-headed Abigail pad to a halt in the doorway connecting the living room to the kitchen.

"Good morning," Myka ventured. The other woman looked barely awake enough to walk, much less navigate the English language.

"G'morning." The phrase was split by a wide yawn. "Sorry. Did you get a call?" Abigail looked confused, and was obviously trying to reconcile Myka's laid-back quietude with the hectic mornings of the last weeks.

Myka shook her head. "No, just up early," she answered quietly. Abigail seemed unwilling to pursue the matter further.

"Do you want coffee?" she inquired.

Myka held up her mug of tea in lieu of an answer. "Can I help you with breakfast?" she asked politely.

Abigail yawned again and shook her head. "I'll be fine. If there's no early emergency, Pete's been demanding pancake and I lost a bet with Claudia over who had to make them."

Myka smiled at the thought. "Shouldn't Pete be making them, if he wants them so badly?"

Abigail looked alarmed at the very thought. "Do I really want to know what would happen if we set Pete loose in the kitchen?"

Myka considered this for the briefest of moments and her eyes widened. "You're right. Call me if you need anything, though."

"I will." Abigail shuffled around before turning back to Myka, still squinting the sleep from her head. "Actually, would you mind getting the paper and the mail?"

"Not at all." Abigail nodded her thanks and headed back into the kitchen, stretching as she went. Myka smiled absently after her before carefully closing her book and rising from the welcoming recesses of the armchair.

The grass outside was dewy on her bare feet as she took the shortcut down to the mailbox. The mail was delivered with the paper before the sun ever rose, another quirk about Univille that Myka had long given up on understanding. That day's mail looked like nothing special: a gaming magazine for Claudia (which she had somehow half-convinced Artie was "research"), a sporting catalogue addressed to Pete, a few advertisements, and what looked like the utilities bill. Underneath all that, however, was a personal letter addressed to Myka.

Myka frowned at it in puzzlement. She had rarely, if ever, gotten a physical letter since coming to work at the Warehouse; communicating by email was easier than explaining why a formerly promising Secret Service agent now lived in Univille, South Dakota.

She returned to the house in absent-mindedly, still studying the letter even as she placed the rest of the mail on the hall table and went to the kitchen to give Abigail the paper. The other woman was slumped against the counter, slowly mixing eggs and flour.

"Is everything alright, Myka?" Myka looked up, startled. She had been standing in the kitchen for longer than was normal, still pondering the letter and the vaguely familiar hand that had penned the address. Where had she seen that before?

"Yeah, I'm, I'm fine." She stuttered a little, still preoccupied. Before Abigail could speak again, Myka swiftly left the room and climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She closed the door silently and sat down on her bed with the covers pulled around her legs before slipping her finger beneath the flap of the envelope and freeing the letter within. She breathed sharply as she immediately recognized the handwriting within.

My dearest Myka,

I would begin this missive with words expressing some polite sentiment, a rote introduction of sorts into what I wish to say, but there is little chance that you will ever read my words. The manner in which we said good-bye leaves little doubt in my mind of what we shall be to each other from now on: old friends who see each other little, and say even less of importance, giving me little reason to ever send this to you.

I know this is not what either of us would have wished, given a choice in the matter. We have meant much to each other these last few years. I was truly happy to see you again, just as it truly pained me to see you drive away; I could feel a physical ache in my side when the bandage of your presence was peeled away, revealing the wound underneath.

This is the reason for my writing to you. I am wounded, damaged, Myka, in ways that no one can understand, yet I both suspect and fear that you can, somehow. You have been with me at some of my lowest moments, and have also witnessed my true happiness, of which you were the cause. You see me as I truly am.

You see me, yet you do not heed what your knowledge tells you: that I am a monster, that I am ripped full of pain that would have me kill myself, yet I am too arrogant and self-flagellating to contemplate the deed without taking the rest of the world with me. I am dangerous. My single-minded pursuit of a means by which to dull my pain has lead me to destruction again and again, whether it be by a renewed ice age or the removal of my own memories. I can see by your eyes that you would gladly stand by my side, and even aid me, as I live with these wounds.

These wounds did not begin with you, Myka, and I fear they would not end with you either, but would spread like the disease I have come to regard them as. Even before Christina, I was a woman apart from the world, meant to live in constant, dizzying circles of motion around others rather than truly with them. My distance from the world only grew after Christina's death. I have you to thank for bringing me in a little closer, and making me feel more present than I have ever before felt. You ground me, as a metal rod for lightning.

But I cannot allow you to do so any longer, Myka. In my very core, I am no longer fully human. I look with abhorrence on the thought of subjecting you to the yawning abyss I contain in my chest; it is something the likes of which I hope you never have to witness again.

You called me a coward, for many reasons, no doubt, and I cannot say I disagree. I am running away to hide like a child caught in an endless and grotesque game. I have that peculiarly British attitude, I suppose—if one can only keep a stiff upper lip and serve tea on time, one can survive.

That is the most cowardly part of this matter. You are supportive, and warm, and kind—quite the opposite of what I deserve, and I cannot keep a stiff upper lip around you. You know what I am. I cannot hide away from you, nor put on a mask in hopes that my inner self will one day match the confidence and content of my outward appearance. This is perhaps cold comfort to you, but you must know that any people who fill my life now are by necessity only fellow actors in a fictitious life of my own writing. You always did like my writing, although I imagine you will say in this work, I've gone too far. Those actors are necessary to fill out the parts of my play, but they will never replace what you have been to me.

For your sake, and admittedly my own, I must say goodbye to you in the form in which I most love you. You have been my friend, my confidante, and I cannot adequately express my gratitude to you simply for existing as you are. However, the time has come in which, to spare you what I am and the continuance of the pain I have already caused you, I must take my leave.

Please know that you remain in my heart, but I beg that you keep it in a dark attic of your glorious mind, only to be visited years from now when I am a mere dusty memory, to be looked at with a wisp of fondness and old memories, and then put away again under the eaves. Do not let the ghost of our 'perhaps' haunt you; I will take it on, breathe life into it, and allow it to live in my mind if you will only lay it to rest.

I love you, darling, and I wish you more good than I can say.

Yours,

Helena

Thanks for reading! This was a random idea that I had and wrote fairly quickly. If there's interest, I might try to write Myka's reply and beyond. Please let me know what you think!

[The title is from Shakepeare's 31st sonnet, and the soundtrack for writing was "Under" by Alex Hepburn, although it's perhaps more fitting for Myka's reply than for HG's initial letter.]

Also, if you read this the first time I posted it, I decided that the story needed a little more than just the letters, so I've updated this first chapter to include the circumstances under which Myka receives the letter, and the format will continue for the rest of the story, alternating between Myka and HG. Let me know if it gets confusing!