Dear Alpha, Your Luna

Chapter 4

Adrian sat at his desk, the dim glow of his lamp spilling across the lined sheet of paper. He had already restarted the letter three times, each draft worse than the last. His handwriting, usually neat, wavered with hesitation. He pressed the pen harder into the page, frustration twisting inside him.

This time, he told himself, he had to get it right.

His first letter had been careless—immature words thrown onto paper without a second thought. He hadn’t expected his pen pal to be someone like Haven. He hadn’t known she lived in an orphanage. He hadn’t realized his words could cut so deep.

And now, staring down at the paper, he finally began again.

---

Dear Haven,

It’s me. Adrian. Adrian Blackwood.

He paused, biting his lip, then pressed on.

Well, I guess it’s probably obvious that it’s me, since my name is on the outside of the envelope, and I’m also probably the only person who writes you letters.

Adrian scratched the back of his neck. “Ugh,” he muttered. It sounded dumb. But he left it. Because it was true.

Crap. That sounded ruder than I meant it. I just meant that most people don’t really write letters nowadays, so if you were to receive one, it would most likely be from someone who had already written you before. Not that no one else would want to write to you—that’s not what I meant.

He ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. He was rambling again, but maybe Haven would understand.

Great. Now I’m rambling. You probably won’t even read this, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I was kind of rude to you before. No—scratch that—I was really rude to you.

He swallowed hard. That part was the hardest to admit.

I could try to shift the blame and say something like, “Well, I didn’t know my pen pal would be an orphan,” but that would be immature of me. The truth is, no matter who the letter was for, I should have never written it the way I did. For that, I am truly, deeply sorry.

Adrian leaned back in his chair. The words sat heavy on the page, but they were the truest things he had ever written.

I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I wouldn’t blame you if you never want to write back to me again. But I had to at least let you know that I realize I was an ass to you. (I know you’re only nine, and I’m sorry for the language, but it’s honestly the best word to describe me right now.)

A wry smile tugged at his lips. His mom would kill him if she knew he’d written that word in a letter to a little girl. But honesty mattered more than appearances.

If you’re even reading this letter and don’t want to forgive me, that’s fine. I understand. And if you don’t want to forgive me, you can stop reading here. Rip it up, burn it, shred it, toss it out the window—whatever makes you feel better.

He tapped his pen against the desk. “Too dramatic?” he whispered. Maybe. But Haven deserved the choice.

But… if you do want to forgive me, then I’d really like a second chance. A fresh start. I’m not asking you to forget what happened before, only that you might give me the chance to try again.

Adrian hesitated before writing the next part. It felt too vulnerable, but it was the truth.

The truth is, even though I have my two best friends, Reid and Nolan, and my brother, Sebastian, sometimes I still feel like something’s missing. Maybe it’s you. Maybe I need a friend who sees the world differently. Someone who didn’t grow up beside me. Someone who hasn’t always been a part of my life.

So… what do you say? Do you think you could give me a chance?

He took a deep breath and finished.

Again, I understand if you don’t want to. Honestly, I don’t even think I deserve for you to open this letter, let alone touch it. So, if you’ve made it this far, then maybe that means you don’t hate me as much as I probably deserve.

I’m rambling again.

Just… think about it, Haven.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Your friend (hopefully),

Adrian Blackwood

When the final word was written, Adrian folded the paper carefully, slipping it into an envelope. He sealed it shut and scrawled her name across the front: Haven. For a moment, he stared at it, doubt gnawing at him. Then he placed it aside, determined.

It was all he could do now. The rest was up to her.

---Haven----

The day began like any other for Haven. Morning routines had become quiet rituals—brushing her teeth, pulling on the neatly folded clothes Shirley had laid out, sitting down at the kitchen table where the smell of buttered toast and frying eggs lingered in the air. Shirley hummed softly as she moved about the stove, the tune warm and familiar.

Jack had already left for work, but Shirley kept the house alive with her gentle presence. Haven ate quietly, as she always did, the scrape of her fork against the plate her only reply to Shirley’s humming.

On the drive to school, Shirley played Haven’s favorite songs, drumming her fingers lightly on the steering wheel. When they reached the gates, Shirley leaned over and squeezed her hand.

“Have a good day, sweetheart,” she said.

Haven nodded, her small smile a silent promise. She slipped out of the car, her backpack heavy against her shoulders.

As she walked through the schoolyard, the familiar ache crept in. Children clustered in friend groups, laughter spilling across the playground like sunlight. Haven drifted toward the swings, alone, watching them from a distance. She was used to being on the outside.

The bell rang, pulling her back inside. Another day of lessons, another day of pretending. She dragged herself to her seat, expecting the same monotony.

But today, something was different.

Sitting on her desk was an envelope.

Her breath caught. The handwriting on the front—Adrian Blackwood.

Her heart stumbled. She hadn’t expected another letter. Not after the first one. Not after the way his words had sliced so deeply.

Eyes darting around, she quickly shoved the envelope into her desk before anyone else could see. The paper seemed to burn against her fingertips, whispering her name even as she tried to ignore it.

All day, her thoughts wandered back to it. She barely heard the lessons. She barely noticed the ticking clock. The envelope waited, patient and heavy, pulling her in.

When the final bell rang, she stuffed it into her backpack, her fingers twitching with the urge to tear it open. But fear held her back.

In the car, Jack’s eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror. He noticed the letter instantly.

“What do you have there, Haven?” he asked casually.

Her throat tightened. “It’s… a letter.”

“From who?”

“Adrian,” she whispered. “My pen pal.”

“Pen pal?” Jack chuckled. “Didn’t know people still did that. Sounds fun.”

She shrugged. Fun wasn’t the word she would have chosen.

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it.”

“Why not?”

Her lips pressed together, unable to explain. The truth pressed against her ribs, heavy.

Jack’s frown deepened. “What’s wrong, Haven?” His voice softened, protective.

“He wasn’t very kind… in his first letter,” she admitted.

Jack’s jaw tightened. “What did he say?”

Before she could answer, a horn blared behind them. Jack cursed under his breath, then winked at her in the mirror. “Don’t tell your mom I said that.”

A giggle escaped her, unbidden. For a moment, the knot in her chest loosened.

But deep down, she carried the weight of that first letter. She had hidden it away, tucked in the small bag she always kept ready—just in case social services decided to move her again. She hadn’t been able to throw it away. Something about it mattered, even though she didn’t fully understand why.

At home, Haven bolted upstairs with her backpack. She closed her bedroom door softly and slid down to the floor, the envelope clutched tight.

Her heart hammered as she tore it open, unfolding the paper.

She read it once, quickly, her eyes rushing over the words. He was sorry. Really, truly sorry.

She read it again, slower, letting his rambling voice echo in her mind.

By the third time, her lips curled into a smile.

For the first time in a long time, a small spark flickered inside her—hope.

Maybe Adrian Blackwood wasn’t just the rude boy from the first letter. Maybe, just maybe, he could be her friend.