Unpromised Home

pretty sure this is hell

'in which everything is the same'

You had no such luck avoiding the loud catastrophe of noise. You did initially manage to sidestep it, making your way to Layla's office and managing to get yourself a stack of paper to supply your office with. The problem was the walk back to your office. You take one wrong turn and suddenly you're watching Texas and California cuss each other out. Fun times.

You sigh as you stare at the duo. You can't even tell what they're fighting about. They're talking so quickly and so loudly it's almost impossible for you to keep up with what they're saying. You glance between the two of them. You wonder how long you'll have to stand here before they notice you standing here. You have your bets set on quite a while.

"Hey there." You glance over to your right, and your gaze is met with the dull blue of the new figure's eyes. You stare at him and his messy head of blond hair with a strange sense of familiarity. This was another State.

"Uh... Hi." An amused look spills onto the blond's face.

"You must be [Name] right? With how York was talking about you I was expecting to get a plant pot to the face."

"I only throw plant pots at people if they piss me off." You stare him down. "Who're you exactly?"

He glances around for a moment, likely looking to see if anyone is in earshot. You doubt anyone could hear him over the volume that Texas and California were yelling at though.

"Delaware." He glances over at you for a moment. "Call me Theo though."

You nod, staring at him for a moment longer before your attention is drawn back to California, Texas and a new guy. You assume that's New York based off the amount of explicatives used in one sentence. Also, you remember him from that time you threw the plant pot. He was just as grumpy then, if you remember correctly. At least it was quieter now.

Adjusting the stack of papers in your hands, you begin to backtrack your steps, slipping away from the small congregation of States. You really just want to get back to your office and write this letter without any more mental crises or other interruptions.

You hum quietly as you walk toward the stairwell. You adjust the stack of papers in your hands. There was an odd silence lingering throughout the building now that you can no longer hear the two states arguing.

You stop for a moment, glancing over your shoulder to stare down the hallway you just came from. It was silent. Almost deathly so. You suppose it must mean that everyone who actually works here was busy with their regular tasks. Unlike you, who's wandering around looking for paper, and unlike the handful of States that had arrived who were decidedly tense. You can't say you blame them. You can't imagine this meeting that they're here for has any good connotations.

Your hands tighten around the stack of papers in your hands. You stand tense for a moment before you sigh and turn back to face the door to the stairwell. You walk up the stairs quickly, heading to your office without wasting a moment more of time. Once there you take a seat in the chair, lacing your hands over the stack of papers.

Holding a pen between your thumb and index finger, you flip it back and forth, thinking of where to begin. It takes a while. Your mind runs as blank as the page before you.

You've always struggled writing letters. Not that you truly have much experience writing actual letters considering the 21st century is so ingrained in technology. You do have experience with emails, however, and emails and letters are similar enough. The act of actually setting out to write something was just such a hassle. Nothing you ever write ever sounds good enough. It's always nothing short of an ugly mess that you have to rewrite half a dozen times before you finally have some semblance of satisfaction in the writings.