Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Pen Pals
Dear Belly,
I don’t know why writing to you is so much easier than talking to most people. Maybe it’s because you can’t see me, or maybe it’s because you never make me feel like I’m saying the wrong thing.
School’s been the same. My mom asking questions I don’t want to answer. Jeremiah keeps telling me I should go out more. Don’t laugh, but I’ve been collecting old encyclopedias lately. There’s something about how outdated they are that makes me feel like I’m holding onto pieces of time.
Sometimes I wonder what you’d think if you actually saw me. Do you picture me? Because I try to picture you. I think you have long hair with braids and braces and that you probably smile too much when you’re writing.
Anyway, what about you? Did you ever finish that book you said was too sad to read at night? I think you like sad books on purpose. I don’t get it, but I guess that’s you.
And in case you didn't know, I love your strawberry stickers. I’ve kept all of them. It’s the first thing I look for when I open your envelope.
— Conrad
Belly read the letter three times before tucking it carefully back into its envelope. She always did that—reread, memorize the little spaces where Conrad crossed out a word, where his sentences ran too long before he remembered to breathe. He never wrote in pencil, only pen, as if he didn’t believe in erasing what he wanted to say.
Conrad Fisher was supposed to be just a name on a list. That was how it started. Belly’s English teacher had signed their class up for some outdated “penpal program,” something to “revive the art of letter writing.” Most kids dropped out after the first week, their letters short or sarcastic. Belly’s first partner had been some girl from Minnesota who never wrote back after two notes. Then, out of nowhere, she was reassigned.
To Conrad.
He was supposed to be temporary, a fill-in. But one letter turned into two. Two turned into months. Now it had been over a year, and Belly sometimes caught herself thinking in letter form—like she was narrating her life to him, saving little pieces of her day just to write down later.
They didn’t know much about each other, not really. Belly only knew he lived based on the address of his letters “Boston” the same way he knew she lived “ Philly.” It was vague enough to keep them both anonymous, but close enough to make it feel like they weren’t worlds apart.
She sat at her desk, the late afternoon sun spilling through her curtains, and pulled out her stationary. It wasn’t fancy, just lined paper with a faint pink border. What made it hers was the final touch: a sheet of strawberry stickers.
She always sealed her letters with one. At first it was a joke—her nickname growing up had been “Belly Button,” and her brother Steven used to tease her about how she turned red like a strawberry when she was embarrassed.
One day, she’d mentioned it in a letter, half-dreading Conrad’s reaction. Instead, he’d written back: You don’t seem like a strawberry. You’re more like the whole field. Stubborn. Messy. Impossible to ignore.
Belly had laughed out loud when she read it, her mom yelling from the kitchen to keep it down. Since then, the strawberry sticker had become her signature, like a promise that it was really her writing.
She tapped the pen against her chin, then bent down to start her reply.
Dear Conrad,
I did finish the sad book. And yes, it made me cry, but sometimes you need to cry to feel better after. Not that you’d understand—you’re the kind of person who would rather read about the history of some war than get caught up in made-up heartbreak.
I laughed when I read about your encyclopedias. That’s the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard, but also kind of sweet. You always make it sound like you’re older than me, but you’re only a year ahead. Seventeen doesn’t give you the right to act like you’ve seen the world. Especially when I’m sixteen and in the exact same grade as you.
For the record, the way you picture me is actually spot on to what I looked like when I was twelve. But I don't look like that anymore. (Plz believe me)
P.S. You’ll get your strawberry sticker again.
— Belly
Her cheeks warmed as she signed her name. She wasn’t sure why she told him things like that—things she couldn’t say out loud to anyone else. But once the words were down on paper, she couldn’t take them back, and a part of her didn’t want to.
She slipped the paper into the envelope, pressed the strawberry sticker across the flap, and set it aside.
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything, she reminded herself. He was just Conrad Fisher. Her penpal. A boy whose voice she’d never heard, whose face she couldn’t even picture. She only knew him through ink and paper, through the space between their words.
And yet—sometimes she wondered.
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On the other side of town, Conrad tapped his pen against his desk, staring at Belly’s letter. He could practically see the strawberry sticker in his head. He had a pile of them now, tucked in a drawer, because he never threw any of her envelopes away. He couldn’t.
She always sounded so sure of herself, even when she was teasing him. He liked that about her—her confidence was soft, not loud. The way she wrote felt like she trusted him, like she wanted him to know her in ways nobody else bothered to.
Meanwhile, Jeremiah was downstairs laughing with a whole group of friends. Some he knew, some he doesn't. His brother didn’t have to try—he just shone wherever he went. Conrad didn’t envy him exactly, but sometimes it felt like the two of them were built for different worlds. He wasn't exactly an introvert per sé, but he definitely wasn't an extrovert either.
And then there was Belly.
She knew about his mom. She knew about that lost year of school, the hours spent in waiting rooms, the way he’d wanted to quit everything. She knew, and was the only constant thing in his life for the past year.
He flipped her letter over, stared at the blank space, and made himself write one more note.
P.S. I should probably tell you something.
My mom decided we’re moving. Soon. Which means next time I write, things might be different.
— Conrad