"How much did you have to drink?" She struggled to stabilize both him and herself, desperately failing as he stumbled into a nearby wall.

Despite the fact that he had just crashed head-first into hard plaster, Christopher giggled giddily, flailing his arms. "Why is the room spinning?"

"So I'm guessing you had a lot." Catherine shook her head in pity before sitting on her haunches so that they could be in eye-level. As his head lolled to the side she quickly put forth her hand to balance it. Instantaneously, she felt his warm cheek lean into her palm. "You're so stupid," she breathed, brushing the strands of his hair away from his eyes. "How could you let yourself get so intoxicated?"

"You intoxicate me," his words slurred and his finger reached forward to tap her nose lightly. He gave a wink.

"Even shit-faced you still manage to be the biggest flirt ever."

She'd just returned from drama practice, elated because for once in a very long time she was able to land a good role in an oncoming prestigious play. Not the main character or any lead role or anything like that, but a role all the same.  Naturally, Christopher was the first person to pop in her mind to share the good news with, and she made a detour towards his apartment for this purpose. It had been drizzling lightly, but the sun was still brightly glowing, as if the heavens had not yet decided on whether to send down rain or shine.

What she hadn't expected was for him to be one foot stuck in La La Land and have his head missing up in the clouds.

"You smell nice." He grinned, bundling a handful of her curly hair and sniffing fervently. "Like coconuts. Do you sleep in the jungle?"

She rolled her eyes, attempting to lift him again. "No, I just use coconut shampoo."

As if sensing her struggle, he made an effort to stand himself. "Look I have sailor's legs!" He laughed as he watched his limbs wobble against gravity. "Now watch me whip, watch me nae... Yeah I think I forgot the lyrics..."

"Shut up," Catherine berated him, making a beeline towards his bedroom. "You've embarrassed yourself enough as it is."

"You're pretty," continued Christopher, ignoring her. "Are you my girlfriend?"

"Shut up," she repeated, and in spite of herself, her cheeks reddened.

"If I was your boyfriend, I'll never let ya go," he suddenly started to belt out Justin Bieber lyrics, and she swore her eardrum almost combusted, "I SWEAR I'LL BE A GENTLEMAN... I forgot the words again."

With a final shove, he plummeted towards his bed, the sound of his sighing mattress filling the room. "You need to sleep," Catherine was saying as she pressed her palm against his cold forehead. "Are you thirsty? Should I get some water?"

His own hand ghosted hers over his head, and he set it aside, along the edge of the bedsheets. "It's okay," his voice was a low mumble, "I'm okay."

She was silent for a moment, before breaking the quietude once more. "Why did you drink so much? I didn't know you drank." Her gaze wandered; she sighted two smothered cigarettes on his dresser.

His eyes fluttered close and she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "I need to forget."

"Forget what?"

He huddled himself to a ball on his bed, as if he was cold, his hair slipping across his shut eyes and curtaining his face. "I have a bloody headache."

More question avoidance. She'd come to learn of Christopher's propensity for vagueness.

"Is there paracetamol in here?" She inquired tiredly, relenting from her prying mission.

"Bathroom. Upper cabinet." His arm lifted weakly, pointing towards a door at the room's edge, before it collapsed again.

She nodded, ambling to the doorway. The metal knob felt cool against her fingers, sending a series of tingles up her forearm.

Christopher's bathroom was neat; the bright glare of the ceiling bulb flashed across his tiles and porcelain, almost making them seem luminescent. Catherine had to stand tiptoed with her body stretched to be able to reach the handle of his high cabinet, and as soon as it's door swung open, she executed a quick hop. In the brief second that she had levitated, her fingers grazed the edge of a pack of medicines, toppling it down.

Only afterwards did she realize that she had not brought down only medicine.

Beside three packets of paracetamol and a stray tablet of ibuprofen, lay a paltry stack of papers bound haphazardly by rubber band. Curiosity geared her hand towards them, and their battered edges tickled her palm as she unwound the band. They were letters.

The papers varied with different colours; some were yellowed and stained with mildew, like they'd been used a long time ago. She started to read one:

Dear Mum,

How are you doing? It's Kit, but you already know that since I signed this. Well I haven't signed it yet but I'll make sure to do that when I'm done; Dad bought me a Popsicle and it's really distracting, so I might not remember.

The drops from it are falling on the paper as I'm writing, so I'm sorry for the red splotches. But that's good I guess. You can have a part of me. I'd mail my heart with this but I'm still using it at the moment.

Seventh grade is cruel, Mum! I honestly don't think I'll be able to survive. Mrs. Martinez is my math teacher and she's really really scary and her breath smells. The cafeteria monitor, Ms. Kipper is also unbearable. She always forced us to eat the poison they serve at lunch and I'm not sure that women are supposed to have beards. :/

I'm not very good at writing these, but Dad said you might like it so here. I miss you btw. (That's by the way, in case you didn't know).

Love,
Kit:)

Catherine let out a low chuckle at eleven year old Christopher's child like innocence, and the amount of love in which he'd interwoven along with the traces of ink. She continued to read, each note becoming shorter and less frequent and less enthusiastic, until they finally stopped.

She frowned as she cleared the last tainted paper, one which he'd written around ninth grade, and she wondered if his mother couldn't have been bothered to reply to a single of his messages. Why were they even here if he had sent them?

What happened to her? Where was she?

Sighing, she bundled the letters back underneath the fraying tension of the rubber band, and it was then that something caught her eye.

There was another paper in the sink; two actually that might have fluttered astray while the others plummeted. They were stark white and contrasted the creamy tones of the other papers, their colour camouflaging easily in the pristine tone of the porcelain.

They looked new.

She unfolded the first one, her breath now bated.

Dear Mother,

It's been a while since I last did this. I considered sending an email: it is faster and more reliable as acclaimed with all the other overrated gizmos of the 21st century, but I must say I prefer traditional letter writing. It's more personal that way; I have heard that one's handwriting is the graphical representation of their voices and their thoughts, also, notice the way their scent sticks to the paper and their fingerprints dance across its surface. What is sentimental is beautiful.

Anyway, I shouldn't bore you. I've been burdened these past days, and it feels as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders.

I have heard that it's not possible to desire two things at the same time; one always has the upper hand. I am aware of that, Mother. But the real dilemma here is figuring which one of the two will assure me more happiness.

I most probably won't send this. Only God knows if you've changed your postal address by now. But you're still in London, I hope. I have certain plans I am not yet ready to disclose, nor have I fully constructed.

I met a girl also, Mother. She makes me

His backhand writing halted abruptly, punctuated by a long trail of ink across the paper's edge, as if he'd been writing half-asleep and eventually drifted.

Catherine's chest tightened. Was she the alleged girl? And if so, what did she make him feel? What were his plans? What even went on in Christopher's mind?

Gingerly, she extended her arm towards the sink to grasp the second one. It's odd briskness was rather surprising, and it was the only one he'd addressed to someone other than his mother.

Dear Catherine,

Dear Catherine.

As if her name had become too wearisome to write.

Clumsily, she stuffed everything back into the cabinet, sans the paracetamol, her heart thumping a quick beat in her ribcage, as she willed her mood not to fall further.

Had she become a burden to Christopher? Had what he wanted to say in the penultimate letter was that she made him encumbered?

She soon realized that there was no need to have bothered with the medicine; Christopher was already fast asleep, his chest heaving with rhythmic movements and the volume of his faint snoring flooding the room.

A pattering sound soon interceded and with the drawing of the window blinds, she became knowledgeable of the downpour that had ensued outside.

Dampening the streets.

Dampening her spirits.

The heavens had chosen rain.