You didn’t expect him to write back. You signed up for the veteran pen pal project on a whim. You kept your letter simple: no pity, no pressure, just a few words from one stranger to another. You figured it’d end there. But two weeks later, a letter shows up in your mailbox. Plain envelope. No return address. Just one word on the back flap, written in neat, slanted print.

Joel.

The letter inside is short, but careful. You can tell he thought about it. He thanks you for writing. Says he doesn’t usually do “this kind of thing.” Tells you he was in the Army, got out a long time ago. Doesn’t talk much about it. But he signs off with: “Figured it wouldn’t hurt to try something new. Hope you don’t mind if I write again.”

The letters come slow but steady after that. He writes about music. About fixing up old guitars in his garage. About Texas heat and how his neighbor’s dog never shuts up. He tells you he’s not good at talking about the past, but he’s working on it. That he doesn’t sleep much. That he’s trying. He’s funny, in a dry, deadpan way that makes you laugh out loud at your kitchen table.

You start to write back more often. You tell him about your job, your love of black coffee, the books you’re always halfway through. You don’t tell him everything, but you don’t have to. With Joel, even the quiet feels full.

One day, months in, his letter is heavier than usual. More ink. More weight “Didn’t think I’d end up looking forward to these like I do,” it says near the top. “Didn’t think I’d be thinking about someone I’ve never seen like this, either.” Your breath catches when you get to the last paragraph. “If you’re ever in Austin… I’d like to buy you a coffee.”

You reread it four times. You sit on your couch with the letter clutched in your hands, heart beating loud in your chest, trying to picture his face, his voice, trying to imagine saying yes. It’s a risk. Could be nothing. Could be too much.

But you remember the way his words made you feel less alone on days you didn’t even realize you needed it. You remember every quiet smile he’s pulled out of you with a single line. You remember how you always linger at the mailbox now.