( Allison looks over the letter when it's tossed to her on mail drop by the newest version of roommate three, who really isn't. She's just here a few weeks at most, but that's rent for another month. She opens the envelope carefully with her nails and reads it over with a smile. She can't leave what she's doing (studying her script for tomorrow), but it still makes her smile.
She says maybe once she's done. But that doesn't happen. She says in the morning. But that doesn't happen either.
She thinks it's only been two days when she picks it up, again, a little annoyed at being so busy, and skimming the words once more gives her an idea. Which sends her to pulling out an extensive portfolio and leafing through pages with a determined expression of focus and consternation. It feels a little like cheating, but at least it is something and maybe next time she will have the time to do better?
When the mail is brought in at the Academy a few days later, it is not envelope. Or it is. It is just much larger than it should be. The material far more durable than paper, and slapped with large "FRAGILE" stickers two on the front and two on the back, like someone was making as sure as they could nothing would happen to it.
When he opens it up, a single thing exists: a glossy headshot in black and white of Allison, her hair blown into an array of waves around a bare shoulders, behind her into the diffuse light. She's looking back over her shoulder out of the image, straight at the viewer, and the press of her mouth hasn't turned any direction. But there's something right at the edge of her mouth, almost impossible to point to what, that makes the whole thing feel like she's smiling all the same.
Written across the top, the careful side not on her face, and the bottom, around the mainframe of the photo, is Allison's slightly loopier fast handwriting in familiar black sharpie. The one with 'slightly more character' that she may have been practicing through the last year, as something better than her father perfectly trained printing. Especially her signature. )
To My #1 Fan,
Scientific tests were necessary. Is this or is this not a letter?
no subject
She says maybe once she's done. But that doesn't happen.
She says in the morning. But that doesn't happen either.
She thinks it's only been two days when she picks it up, again, a little annoyed at being so busy, and skimming the words once more gives her an idea. Which sends her to pulling out an extensive portfolio and leafing through pages with a determined expression of focus and consternation. It feels a little like cheating, but at least it is something and maybe next time she will have the time to do better?
When the mail is brought in at the Academy a few days later, it is not envelope. Or it is. It is just much larger than it should be. The material far more durable than paper, and slapped with large "FRAGILE" stickers two on the front and two on the back, like someone was making as sure as they could nothing would happen to it.
When he opens it up, a single thing exists: a glossy headshot in black and white of Allison, her hair blown into an array of waves around a bare shoulders, behind her into the diffuse light. She's looking back over her shoulder out of the image, straight at the viewer, and the press of her mouth hasn't turned any direction. But there's something right at the edge of her mouth, almost impossible to point to what, that makes the whole thing feel like she's smiling all the same.
Written across the top, the careful side not on her face, and the bottom, around the mainframe of the photo, is Allison's slightly loopier fast handwriting in familiar black sharpie. The one with 'slightly more character' that she may have been practicing through the last year, as something better than her father perfectly trained printing. Especially her signature. )
Scientific tests were necessary.
Is this or is this not a letter?
☐ Yes
☐ No
All My Love & Best Wishes,
Allison Hargreeves