Chapter 1.

Personal Log Stardate 5142. Standard Time.

If one must tell a story, one must start from the beginning, but it is hard to decide when to start such a story. It was always difficult when it came to matters relating to James Kirk, and this was no exception. I met him a total of 3 times in 3 different ways. Logically, I should start from the very beginning; when I first met him, when I did not know his name, yet I knew so much more.

20 years ago

Though one should have logically accepted the situation given the unchanging circumstances, in my own recesses of his mind even I could silently admit I consistently felt one strong emotion towards San Francisco: hatred. I hated the cold winds that chilled to the core of my being no matter the temperature, the winding roads littered with debris, the chaos seemingly embedded into the heart of the city. Most of all I hated the people in the city, though I could admit that San Francisco was not to blame for that. All beings, regardless of the situation or location, always despised me. It was not entirely their fault either, people always feared the unknown and I was an unknown in every sense of the word. There was no point in lamenting; there was nothing I could do to improve my situation, and such thoughts only produced unhappiness and unease.

Hence, I had learned to quench these feelings of resentment. I had grown accustomed to this turmoil within me, a constant ache that never quite went away no matter the circumstances. In time, it had become more bearable, never less noticeable. One must eventually accept their reality, even if they despise it. I had learned to accept that fact from a young age, not out of comfort, but out of necessity. I had learned to control my emotions, to tighten them to a core within me, keeping them within and never to reveal. Emotions, in all cultures, were a sign of weakness, and I could not afford to be weak. Experience taught to detach from them, pleasant or otherwise, or accept annihilation. I had even reduced the deepest emotions to a dull ache, a fragment of what it was before. Painful memories became dullened with the sands of time, and everything else was numb in comparison. But I could never rid myself of them completely, they perpetually remained there, a constant reminder of who I was, and who I never could be.

Still, my hatred persisted against San Francisco. Perhaps it was unjustified to blame a location for my contempt. It was illogical to hate a location that had done nothing against me. My disdain rooted in my choice of living here, or rather, lack thereof. 3 years ago my mother decided to move us away from Shi'khar to her home planet, Earth. The move, like most decisions my mother had made, was an entirely illogical one. Inevitably, she had tired of life on an alien planet. She had never enjoyed Vulcan, with its intense heats, and roaming deserts, and strange customs. More than that, though, she hated being on Vulcan, around not only strangers but entirely different species. She hated being an anomaly on a planet, there was no one to talk to, to understand her plight or even care to understand. Humans by nature are social creatures, and eventually, even my father and video chats could not be enough to sustain her. After 14 years she finally convinced my father to leave the council and become an ambassador on Earth. My father was unpleased with the notion, nor was I. But eventually, my mother won. It was one of the few times that my mother had ever asked anything from my father, and he could never bear to see her unhappy. It seemed the best option at the time.

She chose San Francisco, not only because of its proximity to Starfleet but also her ties to it. This was the city she grew up in, her childhood 'home' so to speak. In many ways, I could see why she loved the city. It was vibrant, and energetic and warm and chaotic, just like her. It was emotional, imaginative, everything that my mother so humanly valued. This was a city of humans, of smiles and greetings and feeling without regret or regard. It was the exact opposite of Shi'khar, everything my mother had missed, but I was not my mother.

My mother was naive. She had forgotten the bitter side of human nature. She didn't see how their smiles did not meet their eyes, that beneath the glimmering faces existed thoughts of malice and hostility. She didn't feel how their smiles covered their sneers, not only at her but at our entire family. She couldn't possibly know how instead of rocks they hurled their words at me, with innocent questions, a facade of politeness with daggers underneath. She couldn't have known of the isolation, to be so full of everyone's emotions, yet empty of your own at the same time. She didn't understand anything. How could she? How could she when surrounded by her people? My father had not understood on Vulcan either. Perhaps no one could, there always was a bias to your own species.

Besides, I did not discuss such matters with anyone, especially not my father. My problems were very emotional, very human, problems. I was long past the age that it was acceptable to have such feelings, much less be troubled by them. I already knew my father's answer: meditation and logical contemplation. Even if we were to discuss it, I doubt he would understand. Here, while he was as alien, he was also an ambassador and a respected member of Starfleet. Even if people harboured xenophobic thoughts, they dared not voice them or even think them aloud in his presence. After all, it would be a disaster to insult Vulcan, and no one was foolish enough to consider the prospect. I possessed no such upper hand. I was only a child, with nothing to my name, nor any reputation worthy of commanding any shred of respect. My parent's reputation was only a burden, not protection—my actions a reflection of their upbringing of me. I was not only a cultural but a scientific anomaly, an impossibility in every manner possible. I was half-human, half-Vulcan, neither enough of one to be satisfactory and a disappointment or oddity in both. I was not logical enough to be Vulcan, and I was not human enough to be acceptable. I wasn't bitter, merely accepting of the reality I was given.

There was only one solace in this desolate place, and that was the library. It was the university library for Starfleet, but in the summer it was hardly used, mostly due to the fact that people did not care to use it. With the advent of holos, libraries were far and few in between; with most people only visiting if they required research not yet translated into holo. I did not mind physical books, though, and in some ways, they were better. I could not explain it logically, but there was something inherently more real to me about books, and there was something consoling in that reality. I had learned to use knowledge not only as a weapon to gain status but as a means of comfort, a way to escape when reality became too much to bear. Knowledge was accurate, understandable, and accessible to those willing to gain it. It was one of the few ways I could gain the closest thing to respect, a manner of equality for all.

While there were holos in the library, they also housed plenty of non-holo copies, a rarity in the city. I had slowly been working my way through the nonfiction section of the library, with a focus on astrophysics and mathematics. I had always expressed a keen interest in science, particularly with the stars and the world beyond. Perhaps it was a naive thought, but I always dreamed as a child to find someone like me in the stars. I remember my fascination since I was young, going to the mountains to chart them in the deserts under the crystalline skies. Here, the skies were too polluted to see the stars, another reason why I disliked this city.

Besides this, it was also one of the few public spaces where I could roam freely without the risk of running into too many people. Home was often too cold, too judgemental to act freely, and anywhere else I ran the risk of hatred. The only person consistently here was the librarian, and she didn't mind anyone, as long as they respected her books and holos. It was my own island of contentment, free to explore and stimulate my mind in peace.

I was here today to read about quantum mechanics. Mrs Weaver, the librarian, had informed me that a new shipment of books from the archives in Boston was arriving, and I had been anxiously anticipating them since. I have been particularly interested in books about Paul Dirac since most of his early work was untranslated into holo.

"I was informed of the new shipment arriving today. Have you obtained the books on Mr Dirac yet?" She gave a small pitying glance. I still was unaccustomed to how much emotion people put on their faces, even unintentionally.

"Sorry, son, someone has already checked it out."

"...I see, thank you." I didn't think much of the incident until 2 days later.

XXX

"Spock, the book you wanted arrived today. The person checked it in this morning."

"Thank you, Mrs Weaver," hastily accepting the book from her.

In the front of the book, I discovered to my surprise a note addressed to me. Well, not specifically me, but the next person reading it. Mrs Weaver must have told them I had been waiting for the book, much to my chagrin.

"Sorry that I took the book, I didn't realize someone had been waiting for it. It's a good read if you're interested in the topic (which I'm assuming you are) but it's a bit dull in some areas, though maybe you'll find it more interesting. Science has never been my strong suit; I'm much more into classical literature. My mom's making me research this, though. She says it's good to get out of your comfort zone, but I think she's just trying to keep me occupied. Sorry, I'm rambling.

Are you a Starfleet student? Mrs Weaver says you come in here a lot. I don't think I've ever seen you before though; this place is usually empty whenever I come. Then again, I usually come here really early. Anyway, Mrs Weaver said you spend a lot of time here. If you ever get bored with the science stuff, I wrote a list of books you may like. You should try to diversify your reading list; it's good to know what you don't know.

Best regards,

-J"

The first words that came to mind were illogical. Completely and utterly illogical. Even though I had never met him emotion exuded from the paper. I could practically hear his animated voice, unabashedly talking with passion to the fullest extent. It was the opposite of everything I stood for...yet despite the emotionality, I did not outright oppose the note nor him. In fact, a part of me was amused, albeit a little taken aback.

From what I could gauge, he was intelligent and well-informed, considering the fact he had even read the book in the first place. He also was extremely emotional, the kind of person that would draw in a crowd. What was strange was he had taken an interest in me, a stranger he knew nothing about except that I had wanted the book and I frequented this place. Yet he wrote as if he already knew me. Perhaps this familiarity was typical of humans in writing, though I harboured a sinking suspicion that this was not the case. In any case, out of mere curiosity, impulse, and even humour, I looked at some of the books he recommended. After all, knowledge is knowledge regardless of the source of recommendation, and it was logical to understand the value of all topics. As "J" wrote, it was good to know what I didn't know. It could also help me understand humans better if I gained a better understanding of their culture, something I hadn't considered before.

The first book I checked out was one by Shakespeare, a tragic play called Macbeth. I had, of course, heard of Shakespeare. Even on Vulcan, the Terran writer was not unknown, and my mother had frequently talked of his stories. I had never read him, though. I had never had an interest in fiction. On Vulcan, every work of fiction not related to the history of Vulcan was considered, at best, a waste of time. Reading was not for enjoyment but only for gaining knowledge. The story was surprisingly sordid, but it also resonated with me. It was an accurate portrayal of the dark side of human nature and the corruption of power.

When I came to return the book, Mrs Weaver gave me another note from the same mysterious writer.

"She told me you were reading Macbeth. I'm glad you took my recommendation. I told her to give you this when you return the book. How did you like it? I wrote more recommendations if you'd like. Tell me what else you like, so I can give you something you will more likely like. Also, what should I call you?

-J"

At first, I ignored the notes, figuring that logically if I did not respond, he would eventually lose interest and I would be unbothered again. Still, I did not detest the notes, or at least not as much as I expected. There was an odd charm in them, a magnanimity that made him appear as more endearing than annoying. He was still very emotional, intelligent but chaotic, jumping from one topic to the next without a logical connection from any previous thought. The letters were never organized in any methodical way, as if he wrote a stream of his consciousness rather than an actual letter. Most of the time, he shared an opinion on the book he had recommended, with an occasional stray thought sprinkled in. He always wrote without any fear of judgement, as if a close confidant, who I supposed he assumed what we were at that point. Occasionally, he would also talk about himself, a memory a poem caused him to remember, a character that reminded him of someone he knew. These were flashing moments, always offhand, but they slowly built a picture of who he was.

In all honesty, if I wanted to end it I knew what I had to do. There were actually many simple options I could do with minor repercussions. A part of me though, one that would not openly admit it, liked the letters. There was something illogically emotional, illogically human, but comforting in them. He spoke to me like no one else had before. It was as if, even for a moment, like someone was talking to me, even if just for a moment.

I was not bold enough to act on it though, and there was also a deep sense of shame with even allowing myself to feel this way, much less act on it. The fact remained that he was only a stranger, a charming stranger, but still a stranger. I did not really know him. I did not know his age, his appearance, or even his name. Anything he wrote (while improbable) could have been fabricated. My indirect continual encouragement was not only illogical but idiotic.

I also began noticing an alarming pattern emerging in the latest set of letters. Before, the letters had always been one-sided, while addressed to me it had mainly been him writing about himself. That changed incrementally when he started asking more about me. His questions started innocently enough, my name, my interests, my opinions on the reading. I did not answer such questions. Even if I did somewhat 'accept' his letters, I was not brazen enough to openly admit that, much less encourage such behaviour. He was persistent though, instead of decreasing in interest as one would think, he only increased from my silence, with each note asking more and more personal questions. Why did I enjoy science? What did I want to do? What were my hopes and dreams? What were my deepest fears? The questions weren't uncomfortable to answer, nor ill-intentioned, but the fact of him asking in the first place was shocking, to say the least. No one had ever cared to understand me before in any way. I did not know what to think or do with such questioning. Every time I read them a continual question bombarded me: what did he want from me? Perhaps a small part of me didn't answer because I knew the reality would disappoint him and he would stop writing once I started answering. I would not blame him either.

After 3 weeks, 21 letters and 79 questions later, I grew impatient with him. For the 29th time, "J" asked my name, which I found to be hypocritical considering he didn't even give his own. Enough was enough; I decided to end this now. I curtly responded on a small piece of paper:

"Please desist from such questioning. You would be unable to pronounce it anyway." I handed the note to Mrs Weaver and told her to give it to him.

Instead of having the intended effect of making him stop, the questions only increased with fervour. The following note was not a letter but an interrogation. On the paper, he wrote a list of 36 questions, all directed at me. I did not even think it was possible to write 36 questions about someone, much less someone caring enough to know the answers. I realised my plan had failed to consider the irrationality of J. His behaviour had been a factor I had undermined, and now I was in a considerably worse position. I could no longer feign ignorance of reading his letters, and he knew given enough persistence I would eventually answer. I had given him an inch, and he had run a mile.

"So the man finally speaks! I was honestly kind of worried for a while. I didn't know what you did with these letters. Mrs Weaver told me you always took them, but I never knew if you actually read them or not. I was worried I was bothering you. I guess I still am, but not as much anymore.

I like your handwriting, by the way; it's really pretty, it kind of reminds me of Vulcan script. Do you know of Vulcan? It's a beautiful planet, some of the most brilliant minds come from there. Anyway, it feels weird knowing you read these. I mean, I always wanted you to read them, and I assumed you did. It still feels weird to have actual confirmation though, you know? I feel almost self-conscious, which is dumb considering it's too late for that. Anyway, I want to know more than your name. I want to know everything about you. I always feel like I write about myself, and it isn't fair to only keep talking about me. Besides, I'm curious to know about you; you fascinate me. I wrote down a list of questions I found online. Supposedly, these questions would make people fall in love. Of course, it's completely wrong, but I like the questions, nonetheless.

By the way, why can't I say your name? I'm pretty determined I could if you wrote it. I'm very stubborn if you can't tell. Besides, it doesn't hurt for me to try right?

-J"

Whether it was out of resignation or something more I did not know but I answered every single question. The next day he had already written back, commenting briefly on each, and answering each one as well. So began the start of the closest thing I could call a friendship. We continued writing fervently to each other throughout the summer. His curiosity was like a hydra, one answer sprouted two more questions, a never-ending chain of interest. He was never unkind either, he never pointed out if I didn't answer anything. He also was always considerate and gentle with my answers, never harsh or cruel. Though it was impossible to accurately know, he seemed genuinely interested in me, not of me. This feeling warmed me and caused me, despite my shame, to be excited to hear from him again. I also slowly asked questions of him, which he encouraged, always reassuring me he was happy to answer any I had, and always answering with enthusiasm. Life flowed from his words like nothing I had ever felt before, a happiness directed at me I had never felt from another living being.

I slowly began painting a more detailed picture of him. For one, he was not from here. He had grown up in the countryside, but due to his mother's occupation and other various reasons, he had moved to San Francisco this summer. He was approximately 1 year, 2 months and 16 days younger than me. Both of his parents were in Starfleet, so he did not see them often, much as I did not see mine. He also, unsurprisingly, wanted to join Starfleet when he was older. He wanted to become a captain of his own ship, travelling the stars and exploring the galaxies. He had an older brother who he lived with and acted as his main guardian. He was well versed in a wide array of topics; the basic sciences, battle tacticians, politics, language, cultures both on Earth and elsewhere, federation history and Earth history, mythology, psychology, and everything in between. The only topic he seemed to not understand was navigation, which was ironic for someone aspiring to be a Starfleet captain.

He was at heart a romantic; he loved poetry, and classic Terran writers, such as Shakespeare, Poe, Aristotle and Plato. As he put it, it spoke to his soul; there was something moving about how they wrote a rose smelled, or the deep tragedy of loss. Though I had never been inclined to poetry, through his writing, I had to agree that there was a powerful emotion in words. He was, in general, obsessed with pre-Federation Earth culture, particularly the 1980s style of music and movies (which he talked incessantly about, especially after he discovered I had not watched 'The Breakfast Club', which I learned had nothing to do with breakfast and more with intoxicated teenagers). He loved life in every sense of the word. He saw the potential of humanity, but also the dangers in it, despising any type of war or violence. He hated vegetables, was allergic to approximately 27 different substances (an unexpectedly high number). He liked the city but missed the countryside because you couldn't see the stars. He was illogical, emotional, and everything that went against what I should value. Yet, I could not help but contain a strange fondness for him.

Our conversations inevitably melted away from the content we were reading and more about the interests of the other. Sometimes the letters were short, a joke or two, something the other did or read. But they were always considerate and responsive to the previous one. Other times they were lengthy and long, a chaotic hurricane of emotion swept through ink and passion. I also began talking of myself, expressing my opinions every now and then. Each time I did, he would always reply with something, a jest, a compliment, a comment, but always good-natured. He slowly coaxed more out of me.

I talked of Vulcan, the burning heat, the neverending sands and cool desert breezes. I talked of the clear night skies, sitting under the stars, hoping to find a home in them. I spoke of my childhood and I-chaya, of the cruel Vulcan children and how unkind people are when fear drives them. I spoke of my dreams to escape, to discover a world of acceptance, of something beyond me that I had been looking for but could never name. I spoke of my parents, their jobs, and expectations for me to follow their occupation. I spoke of my love of science and my distaste for politics, finding people a constant enigma I could never understand. I told him of my siblings, of Sybok who continued to live on Vulcan and Michael who I did not speak to anymore.

I never mentioned names, though, and only answered what he specifically asked. I kept the details limited, curt and intentional, never explaining more than what was necessary to satisfactorily fulfil the question. He did not ever press, but I still worried. I worried not only he would tire of me, but also that I was giving him too much. I could not let him know who I was outside of these letters. He could not know of my heritage, my true heritage. It was a shameful fact that I would avoid at all costs. Years of abuse from both sides had taught me that; acceptance was never to be expected, much less kindness. I had grown accustomed to the stares, the whispers behind my back, the look of disgust of fear, of anger at my mere existence. I had learned not to care about their opinions, or at least appear not to. With him, it was different. He was different. He was kind, and intelligent, and genuine, and warm, so very warm. He was like the sun, a warmth I discovered I could not bear to lose. I was so very afraid of losing him. It was odd and in a way pathetic that the closest thing I had made to a friend I didn't even know his name.

Author's Note

This is the start of a VERY LONG story...with a lot of slow build. Ideally, it will be around 17 chapters long, but I'm excited to share it with everyone. Anyway, please leave a comment on what you think and how to improve it. Also for anyone interested, there is an actual list of 36 questions to fall in love-the NY times did an article on it.