Dear Lucy,

Have you ever heard of the concept of solipsism? It is a philosophical concept, to which everything around one's self is created by one's imagination. Anything else is the unknown, the only thing that truly is known is what is around the person. The concept, although odd at first glance, is an interesting notion. I've taken up thinking of our meeting on the day of my birthday as a bit of my imagination playing on me. I know it was no dream; our correspondence that trails back and forth about what Jenny could improve within her cupcakes and the case files within my reach are enough to conclude that it was not my imagination. I must admit though, if everything is of my imagination, including yourself, then perhaps you have been the best thing I've ever come up with. Yes, even cocaine does not match up to your ability to believe in me.

I know you are wondering if I have somehow found my way into cocaine with the sudden speech on solipsism along with such a sappy thought. I have half the mind to cross it all our and scrap it. I haven't taken any substance. What actually came that lead to this thinking is much more embarrassing. I, admittedly, had a dream in regards to our first meeting face-to-face which brought upon this revelation and the first instinct was to scrap my original correspondence I planned to send to you and replace this one.

I will address what we spoke of quickly so I don't sound like I am merely ignoring what you last wrote: my favourite colours are red and blue. I don't like baggy clothes-they tend to make me feel like a slob, but I have no choice in the matter here. I think Bratwright is a moron for refuting your claim-his inability to accept being wrong holds him back. I am suddenly driven to solve this cold case you brought me so you can take the credit. I'll gladly work harder on this particular mind bending case if it is a means to one-up him. It's not a solution, though it's a method, is it not?

Back to the matter at hand: I'm not normally very affectionate, but I feel as though it is safe to regale that you unceremoniously taking up my rude self as a pen pal has become my motivation. We've discussed this on our first phone call, but it has become more apparent with each day I spend in this room, rereading The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and attempting to crack those cases you've brought to me. I don't want to stay here anymore. My initial claims of sobriety were half-hearted at best, for I knew that it was still possible that I would be tempted to reach out to an old dealer regardless of what I had gained in the process of our association. This time, it feels different, now that I've met you. It's not just letters that are withstanding that show your desire to be my friend. You stood there, held my hand like some fairy. My imagination or not, you didn't want to leave. Your face held no sense of malice of my character and you actively chose to be with me on that day.

I know it sounds childish. You've made your stance clear over and over again, through all modes of communication we have taken up on. It is just a new feeling, one that I have yet to be accustomed to after years of failures from others.

I have never had the need to feel like I must depend on someone as such in a short period. To depend on them as a means of wanting to live, of wanting to be better. It doesn't feel like it should. Our conversations over these months are idle chatter at best, we don't have phone calls on a daily basis, nor have I seen you since that faithful day. Yet I find myself still feeling this way. I've heard your voice and I can't get it out of my head, along with that melodious of a laugh you have. Even the smell of your light perfume is still on the black jumper you hugged me in and I find that I don't even want to wash it until it runs out. All of this, admittedly, is brand new. All of it, Lucy.

One of the staff here and the closest thing to an associate I have, Sam, has constantly has teased me since our first meeting. It took a cupcake to shut him up, though I had every reason to just cut his tongue right then and there. The desire only strengthened when he began to say that we would be a wonderful couple. I don't oppose the matter, but his insistence leaves little to oppose in the first place.

I'm an unsavory character. You know this. I threaten people (I just did it a few sentences ago), make them uncomfortable, and feel that shooting up is the only way to be liked. I wouldn't be surprised if I said something repugnant and you would stop writing to me altogether. I've been known to do that and I deem it necessary to reiterate to you, regardless of your stances. I would much rather prefer to remove any notion I am feeling now rather than later.

I must end this letter at this point and perhaps it may be for the best. One of the other staff members here is telling me to go to bed, so I shall. I want to scrap this letter as well. Reading through it, I find that it's much to sappy for my own taste. The saccharine sweetness is dripping from it and certainly is enough to rival Jenny's sweetest of cupcakes but I don't want to create a third letter to spare myself from revealing what I am thinking. It would do no good, I believe.

Your Recovering Drug User,
Alfendi Layton

P.S. The demands you made against my father are telling of how well you're able to get what you desire. Within the past few days, those changes have been put into effect. You really requested a larger room, a larger thread count for my sheets, and my own little desk with sufficient stationary. You must remind me to never get on your bad side if this is how efficient you can become when you want something done.