song_tra_bong: (lost in thought)
[ooc: Millitimed to immediately after this]

She's dealing with it. She's dealt with it. She let him go.

Or she thought she had.

("Anything about you being or not being together is irrelevant if you still care.")

But this whole thing with Jack and Satine and the still-faceless Christian is tugging at the ragged edges of her wound. Everything had been in order--she was coping and doing it well--and then...

("Love is mutual. If you don't get it in return, it's hopeless. Pointless. You're wasting energy for nothing.")

She doesn't know who she can talk to, isn't sure she wants to talk to anyone. So she sits down and writes one more letter )

This letter is folded with particular care before being added to the others. Though she hasn't formally decided, something tells her this will be the last such letter she'll write. It's over now, really over as it hasn't been for more than a month.

She doubts he'll see a one of these letters. The idea doesn't bother her as it once had.

("Is love worth dying for? I think it should be. Real love--whether you get it back or not--is worth fighting and killing and dying for. Because it's yours and nobody can take it from you unless you let them.")

And a thousand worlds away, something smiles without a mouth and laughs without a voice and adds her name to a list.
song_tra_bong: (look back)
[ooc: Millitimed to just after this brilliant plot.]

Mary Anne is seated on her bed, absently towling her hair dry as she composes another letter )

The letter is stuffed hurriedly in with the others. She cradles her head in her hands.
song_tra_bong: (laying lying lie-ing)
Mary Anne's been lying low the past few days. Among other things, she's written another letter: )

It goes into the drawer with the first. This could become a habit if she isn't careful.
song_tra_bong: (shoulder)
[ooc: Millitimed to not long after this conversation.]

Mary Anne's mother was prolific when it came to letter writing. Thank you notes, congratulatory letters, just a few lines to let someone know she was thinking of them--she was always writing letters. She tried to pass on this trait to her daughter.

Mary Anne didn't take to it as much as her mother had. Tonight, however, she has cause, so she sits down and writes her first letter in three years.

When it's finished, she folds it in thirds and writes 'To Ramon' on the outside. )


That done, she places the letter reverently in her nightstand drawer. Part of her contemplates burning it in the morning. But she won't.

For now, it will be kept safe.

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Mary Anne Bell

February 2010

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