Author's Note: I'm never saying that I'm leaving fanfiction again because it makes me look like a liar. Really, I have the best of intentions when I say I'm going to stop writing but then I can't resist the pull of Puck and Rachel and they call me back with all their amazingness. However, in the two months since I've done a multi-chaptered story, I've made great progress in developing characters and a story line for my manuscript and am working a lot on it. But the lack of Puck and Puckleberry in season 2, oddly enough, made me love them even more and then this story popped into my brain and yeah… so I'm back with this. I hope you like it.

Story title comes from Ryan Star's "Last Train Home."

"Noah Puckerman!"

The sound of his name jolted him out of his stupor and he sat up, his feet dangling off the top bunk. He scrubbed his hand over his face, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and hopped down, careful to avoid contact with the cold, dirty concrete floor.

"What?" he yelled loudly, his voice carrying down the long concrete and metal corridor.

" Got a letter for ya. Bring it down in a few," the voice called back.

Sitting in the corner of the same small space, Larry looked at him curiously. "Since when do you get letters, Puckerman?"

Puck shrugged. He hadn't gotten a single letter in the five months he'd been there. "Probably a bill collector. Wouldn't put it past those assholes to hunt me down in here."

Turning toward the small window along the back wall, he squinted his eyes against the sunlight as he looked out. Although he could only see the tops of the trees through his tiny vantage point on the world, he could tell that the wind was blowing and that the sun was baking down on Lima. He closed his eyes against the imagery, practically able to feel the sunlight on his skin and hear the rustle of the wind through the elms that lined the park across the street. He fucking missed that feeling; it had been too damn long.

A few minutes later, a letter was shoved through the bars, thrust in Puck's general direction. It fluttered to the floor and Puck shuffled over, his flip-flops making a distinctive dragging sound against the floor, and snatched it up. Puck sat down in the chair on the other side of the small table from Larry and stared at the handwriting that adorned the front of the bright yellow envelope. It was loopy, feminine, and vaguely familiar. A New York postmark graced one corner but no return address was in the other, leaving the sender a mystery. Flipping it over, Puck ran his fingers along the seal and broke open the letter. After unfolding it roughly, his eyes slid down to the bottom of the letter and then widened in shock when he saw the name that was neatly placed there. Trailing his gaze back up the page, he began to read:

July 14, 2022

Dear Noah,

I hope this letter finds you as well as can be expected. I ran into Finn and that's how I learned of your situation. I hope you don't mind my writing you while you're incarcerated. I realize that we haven't actually spoken since graduation and so this letter comes to you after nine years of silence and totally out of the blue. I truly just wanted to let you know that you're in my thoughts and that I'm sorry you're in this predicament.

Finn mentioned that you were getting out in August after serving a six-month sentence. First of all, I do hope you're receiving proper nutrition. I know that institutions are required to provide their "guests" with well-balanced meals but I'm still concerned about your overall health. I hope you're taking advantage of the exercise programs, as well. And I believe that I don't need to lecture you, at this point, on not only the perils of drunk driving but also the very serious danger you were putting both yourself and Lima's residents in and I do hope that you've learned your lesson.

Puck stopped reading and scowled at the letter. He hadn't heard from this woman in nine years and she was writing to lecture him now? Fuck. He knew why he was in that goddamn cell. He was the one who got behind the wheel, completely plastered off his ass and had gotten caught, not once or twice but three fucking times. He was the one who'd had to endure strip searches and shackles and absolute humiliation thanks to his own stupid mistakes.

His mood was quickly turning sour and, brushing aside memories he'd rather forget but knew he never would, he resumed reading.

I don't presume to know how you got into the situation you're in but I hope that when you're released, you'll be on a path to starting your life over. I've always believed that you had a lot of potential, Noah. I'm not sure what demons keep you from reaching that potential but I do hope that you've had some time to identify those demons while you've been incarcerated and have a plan to turn your life around once you get out.

I do think of you, as well as all our former classmates, quite often. I keep in contact with Quinn and Sam and they're both doing well. Their son, Max, just turned two. I know you still talk to Finn, of course, and he told me that you're involved with Santana? I hope that she's been a support to you during this very rough time.

Puck snorted at that. Santana? Support? Hell no. He had barely seen her since he'd been locked up. She was around to fuck when he needed something warm, wet, and willing around his dick and she stayed out of the way when he didn't. That was pretty much the relationship they'd had since they were 15 and, unless one of them got a head injury and decided to get married or become monogamous or some other unlikely shit, it would probably always be that way.

I, myself, am doing quite well in New York City. I am presently performing in an off-Broadway show that is in talks to move to the Great White Way within the next six months. It's a very difficult, exhausting life but it's also very rewarding. Rubbing elbows with Broadway's elite is what I've been dreaming of and the fact that it is happening speaks to my talent, don't you think?

Anyway, I really just wanted to let you know that I've been thinking of you and I wish you well. I hope that you're healthy and determined to get your life together. I don't expect you to write to me but if you should desire to, my return address is below.

Take care, Noah.

All the best,

Rachel Berry

"So who's the letter from, man?" Larry prodded when he could tell that Puck had finished reading.

Puck dropped the letter on the table and ran his fingers through his hair. When he looked up at Larry, he had a pained look on his face. "The one that got away. Well, actually, she's the one that never was…but probably coulda been, had I not been such a fuck-up."

Larry snorted. "I think we all got one of those. You gonna write her back?"

Shaking his head, Puck refolded the letter, shoved it in the envelope, and stood up. "Naw. What's the point?" he asked seriously. "She's doing great and it was just a fucking pity letter anyway." Stalking over to his bunk, he slid the letter beneath the pillow and grabbed a magazine. When he flipped it open, he realized that he could barely see the words on the glossy page because he was seething with anger. Why the hell would she write him a letter now? After all these years? And when he was in jail? Did she think he was a fucking charity case?

Jerking the magazine open to the main article about the perils of NFL head injuries, he grunted and forced himself to focus on 300-pound linebackers and not on a 95 pound songstress he hadn't seen in almost a decade. Who the fuck does she think she is?

…

Later that night, long after lights out, Puck was lying in his bunk with his arms folded behind his head. As usual, he wasn't even remotely tired but at 10pm every night, the cell lights inside Allen Correctional Institution went out whether the "residents" were ready to sleep or not. Like every other night, he tossed and turned for hours, the springs beneath the thin mattress digging into his back. He flopped over on his side, wincing at the sound of the creaking metal below him, and stared out the tiny 9-inch by 11-inch window. He watched as a few clouds slipped in front of the moon and the longing to be outside those walls made his heart beat more insistently inside his chest. The tops of the trees barely moved and he imagined that outside, it was a warm night. He let his mind drift, picturing himself out at the reservoir with a bottle of JD in one hand and his guitar in the other. But then again, that was the same shit that got him into his current mess in the first place.

Scowling, he stabbed at the lumpy excuse for a pillow below his head and let his mind fall to his mom. Images of the heartbreak and disappointment that twisted her face into a permanent scowl whenever she had time off work to actually make it to the 2-hour visiting hour session on Saturdays always seemed to haunt him. He missed his sister, who was now 19 and in college and didn't have time for her deadbeat brother (and he honestly couldn't blame her.) And then he thought about Finn, who stopped by whenever he was home visiting Burt and Carole. Sure the visits were brief but they were a great way to keep in touch with the outside world and it was always great to see his best friend again. Hell, even Kurt had stopped by once or twice. He'd spent most of the time complaining about the lack of creativity of the jumper Puck was forced to wear but Puck didn't mind because a friend was a fuckin' friend. And then there was Santana, who hadn't visited him in jail since the night he got arrested for the last time and all she did then was sneer at him and remind him what a huge fuck-up he was (like he needed another reminder.)

Puck grunted and pushed his hand under his pillow, slightly startled when his fingers made contact with the envelope he'd shoved under there earlier in the day and subsequently forgot about. He pulled it out and stared at it for a moment before laying it on the concrete sill of his tiny window. Flipping over onto his back, he stared up into the blackness of his cell.

Rachel Berry.

He hadn't seen her since graduation day but his memory of her went back much, much further than that. He'd met her for the first time when they were in kindergarten. Their childhoods were intertwined thanks to the small Jewish community in Lima but it wasn't until high school that they really began to seriously interact and even then, he wasn't proud of how he'd treated her. A constant, bullying presence in her life at first, it had taken Glee club and a bit of growing up to realize that there was more to her than a bossy attitude and huge dreams. And for a week sophomore year, she'd been his girlfriend. It hadn't been a real relationship by any stretch of the imagination but it had set them on a path to a friendly, companionable relationship that lasted right up until graduation. He remembered how happy she was that sunny June afternoon, beaming with joy and going on and on about heading off to Julliard to make a name for herself. All the kids from the Glee club had gathered together at Mr. Schuester's for a party. Puck hadn't wanted to go but Santana had told him, "Listen asshole, if I can put up with these people one last time, so can you." So he'd gone, stayed out of everyone's way, and then left before the singing started (because singing always started with that crew.) He spent the summer avoiding everyone, sleeping a lot, cleaning pools, fucking whichever chick he let his eyes linger on earlier in the day, and getting drunk and high. And then all his classmates had headed off to college and he'd stayed right where he was. He was a Lima loser and he knew it. He got a job working at Lima's only gym and had ended up staying there for eight years. He hated the job but they really didn't give a shit if he showed up hung over or even didn't show up at all on some days so he kept coming back right until the second he was thrown into jail.

Puck kicked the thin sheet off his body and closed his eyes. He could still picture Rachel like he had just seen her yesterday and not nine years before. Long hair the color of coffee and expressive, dark eyes, she was captivating in a non-traditional way (meaning she didn't look like the normal chicks he spent his high school years nailing) but he couldn't help but want her. But save the week sophomore year he'd had her and lost her because they'd both been too busy wanting what couldn't be theirs, she'd spent all of high school as his best friend's girl. And although he never claimed to be the smartest guy, he'd already made the mistake of going after Finn' girl once so, for the most part, he steered clear of the tiny ball of fire who ruled their Glee club with an iron fist and a set of pipes rivaling Patti LuPone (but, fuck, just 'cause he avoided her didn't mean he didn't have to listen to her.) They'd been friends – just friends – and he'd been totally cool with it. Well, there was that one time, late junior year, when she and Finn were having one of their epically stupid fights and Puck just happened to be her designated shoulder to cry on. He let her sniffle and snot all over his favorite plaid shirt and then, when her eyes were drying and her smile was returning, he kissed her. It came out of nowhere and even now, all those years later, he wasn't sure why he'd done it. It had been soft and way less insistent than his normal approach to scoring. And he'd taken his time, exploring her lips and responding to the slight nuances in the way she tilted her head or pressed her mouth back against his. When they'd parted, she'd turned red and ran off like she'd been spooked. The next day, she returned to school with her hand locked in Finn's and she and Puck never spoke of the kiss again.

Over the years, he'd pretty much forgotten about her. He knew she was doing well in New York City; of course she was. She was Rachel Berry. She was the most talented person he'd ever met. Sure, her many talents made her stick out like a sore thumb, putting a target on her back in high school but he knew that in New York, she'd wow 'em.

For a brief moment, Puck wondered why the hell she'd bothered to write him. It really didn't make any sense. He toyed with the idea of writing her back but then pushed it away again. What was the point? Sighing into the darkness of the miserable cold cell, he rolled onto his side again and forced his eyes closed. There was plenty of time to think about all that shit tomorrow. It wasn't like he had anything else to do, anyway.

…

When Saturday rolled around, Puck was shocked to find out he has a visitor. He already knew his mom had to work so he'd planned on spending the quiet time in his cell (because Larry's wife visited every Saturday) reading. But when he saw Finn sitting behind the glass, grinning at him, Puck felt himself smile for the first time in days.

Picking up the phone that allowed the two of them to speak, Puck asked, "The fuck you doin' here, Hudson?"

Finn shrugged. "Was home visiting so I thought I'd stop by before I head back. How ya doing, by the way?" Finn's eyes shifted from left to right, his discomfort at his surroundings evident.

"Good as can be expected. Shit's a lot easier to deal with because I know I'm getting out in less than a month." Puck paused and then asked, "So what've you been up to?"

"Well, I went to New York City on vacation last month. Haven't been there since Nationals our junior year. I fuckin' love that place."

When Finn mentioned New York, Puck immediately thought of Rachel's letter. He frowned at Finn and said, "Speaking of New York, dude, why the hell did I get a letter from Rachel Berry? I haven't heard from her in years."

Finn leaned back in his chair and grinned. "She said she was going to write you. She flipped her lid when I told her you were in jail and started in on a tangent about whether you were getting proper nutrition and sunlight. Once I assured her that you weren't wasting away, she was really concerned about how you ended up here and where you went wrong, blah blah blah."

"Hmm," Puck said, surprised at Rachel's reaction to his situation. He met Finn's eyes and asked, "Hudson, how the fuck did you run into her in New York City anyway? Not like it's Lima and you just stumble up on people at the grocery store."

"I looked her up, man. We met for coffee and she showed me around. I didn't get to see her for long because she headed off for rehearsal but…I hadn't really talked to her much since we broke up freshman year of college."

"So," Puck prodded, "how'd she look?"

Finn smirked. "Like she used to only somehow hotter. I mean, her body was incredible and she had this short hair that kinda fell around her shoulders. But she looked sad, too, dude. Like, tired and stuff."

"What d'ya mean?"

Finn thought for a moment. "Well, you know how she was always going a mile a minute and never seemed to stop? The Rachel in New York wasn't like that at all. She had dark circles under her eyes and, although she was happy to see me, I could tell she was distracted, like she had shit on her mind."

"Well, the long-ass letter she wrote me basically lecturing my ass for getting thrown in jail sounded exactly like the Rachel I remember."

"I think she's probably just lonely, dude," Finn said. "That city's huge and she's basically all alone."

Puck nodded, tapping his fingers on the worn white table. "Like she doesn't have a million fucking people vying for her attention." Puck rolled his eyes at his friend and added, "Oh, and she said that hopes I've learned my lesson."

Finn paused, pursing his lips for a moment, and then asked, "Well, have you?"

"Fuck you, Hudson. You think I wanna come back this hellhole again?"

Finn shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then changed the subject. "Are you gonna write Rachel back? I think she'd really like to hear from you."

"Nah," Puck shook his head. "Nothing to say really."

Just then, a guard tapped Puck on the shoulder and signaled that his time is up. Finn waved sadly and then hung up the phone. Puck watched him leave, trying to ignore the sadness that overtook at being all alone once again, and then shuffled back to his cell.

Three hours later and just 45-minutes before lights out, Puck found himself sitting across the unsteady table from Larry, writing a response letter in his messy scrawl. He wasn't sure why, but he waited nearly a week to mail it. He knew she wasn't expecting a response anyway. She was probably too damn busy getting famous to really care.

It had been stirring for a while. As Rachel went about her life, she couldn't help but notice the static that seemed to charge the air around her. It wormed its way into her soul, putting her even more on edge than normal, and made her feel like all it would take was one tiny crack before she broke completely. And as it turned out, it wasn't just one crack (which would have been easier to deal with) but a whole series of tiny little fissures all splintering at roughly the same time that ended up being her undoing.

It was just eight days after she'd mailed the letter to Noah (not that she'd been counting) that a perfect storm built up and crashed down around her shoulders. It all started the moment Rachel pushed open the squeaking door to her apartment at one in the morning and a rush of warm air hit her in the face. "Again?" she asked herself as she stepped inside. When she closed the door, the full effect of the once-again broken air conditioner almost made her nauseous. The small, dark apartment was sweltering. Quickly flipping on the light, she rushed over to the thermostat and looked at it. 86 degrees.

She glanced at the clock and, despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, grabbed her phone and called the superintendent's office. When the answering machine picked up, her voice was tight. "This is Rachel Berry in 3F again. My A/C is out and it's miserably hot in here. And don't forget that my fridge is making a strange noise and doesn't seem to be very cold inside. Please rectify these problems in the morning. I'll be home all day. Thank you."

Hanging up the phone, she stomped into the bathroom to pull her hair off her neck. As soon as she turned on the light, one of the light bulbs hanging over the ancient vanity blew with a loud pop, causing Rachel to jump. She groaned because light bulbs were her responsibility and not the super's and the last time she'd looked at her checkbook to check the account balance, she didn't even have enough to buy a box of bulbs. She felt the tears welling up in her eyes as she brushed her shoulder-length hair into a short ponytail. Grabbing a cloth out of the tiny closet, she wetted it under the tap and placed it on the back of her neck, sighing in pleasure as the coldness sent a shock through her body.

Making her way into the living room, she flipped on her small television and dropped onto the worn couch, propping her bare feet up on the table. She stared longingly at her toes, remembering the days when they were manicured and painted in bright hues of red or pink. Now, the nails needed trimming and polishing and, of course, that wasn't in her budget, either. Rachel's throat stung with unshed tears and she fought against them, swallowing hard. She grabbed the remote to the tall, columnar fan that was her only relief against the heat and flipped it on, closing her eyes as the breeze rushed past her. And there, with the TV casting a bluish glow inside her miniscule apartment, she drifted off to sleep.

When she woke up again, there was sunlight streaming in through the single window in the kitchen and there was a pounding on the door. Jumping up, she dashed over and wrenched it open, smiling when she saw the super standing there, flipping through messages on his phone and looking generally disinterested.

"Fridge and A/C?" he asked.

Rachel nodded, stepping aside to let him in. He was an older man, tall and wiry and with a smell that made Rachel wrench up her nose and long to take a shower of her own. She watched as he went to work first on the ancient, goldenrod-colored refrigerator. When he was satisfied with that, he found his way to her tiny air conditioning unit and fiddled with it. Rachel sat on her couch, casually flipping through an old People magazine while eying him. When her lights flickered and then the unit started humming, the super turned toward her, a satisfied look on his face. "It's fixed for now but we'll have to order you a new one. It's kinda old."

Rachel bit her lip to keep from snorting. "Kinda? You don't say?"

The super ignored her and headed for the door. "We'll call you when we're ready to install the new one." And then he was gone.

Rachel latched the door behind him and turned, making her way into the tiny corner of her studio apartment that was designated as a kitchen. Yanking some soy yogurt from the rapidly cooling fridge, she had just slipped the first spoonful into her mouth when her phone rang.

The moment her hand touched the phone to answer, she was nervous. She couldn't quite figure out why but her hands shook slightly as she answered. And as she listened to the words being said on the other end, her hands shook more and the tears that had been threatening her for days spilled over.

After mumbling an "I understand", she hung up the phone, tossed her yogurt into the trash, and made her way back to the couch.

"Cut," she said to herself. "I've been cut. I can't believe I've been cut! How in the hell have I been cut?"

She dropped her small body onto the couch with force and grabbed a pillow, pressing it against her face to absorb the scream that left her body. And when she was done, drained from yelling, the tears slipped down her cheeks with a rush.

Off-off-off-off Broadway and I've been cut from the show. How does this happen to me?

But even as she asked herself that question, she already knew how. Since graduating from Juilliard five years earlier, she'd had to fight tooth and nail for every single, tiny role she'd landed. And there hadn't been many of them, that was for sure. She'd never forget the day when her fathers told her that she was going to have to get a regular job to help supplement their monthly support because, while they hadn't minded paying for her college, they couldn't support her all of her adult life. And so, two years before, Rachel had started waitressing. It had nearly killed her to put on that apron and allow herself to be talked down to by rude New Yorkers and wide-eyed tourists but it had paid the bills and kept the tiny, ramshackle roof over her head. And she didn't mind the work, really. She was resilient and strong and she knew she'd have to do what it took to make it. But therein lied the problem – she wasn't making it. She had yet to land a starring role and now, with just a phone call, she had no role at all.

Rachel found herself sleeping through most of the day, unwilling to deal with the fact that, when it came to acting, she was back to square one again. And at 5pm that evening, she tossed her apron in her bag and slipped her feet into her worn but comfortable Nikes, forced her stage-smile onto her face, and headed to her shift at the restaurant.

When she turned the corner, she was shocked to see a crowd outside. And then she noticed the big, NYFD truck sitting out front and noticed the smoke. "Oh no," she whimpered, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Rachel!" Debbie, the older woman who managed the kitchen, yelled when she spotted Rachel. She scurried to Rachel's side, gripping her hand tightly, and said, "Grease fire, Rachel. The kitchen was destroyed. Ol' Emanuel didn't service the fire extinguishers even though I told him we needed to so they didn't work and… it's gone. It's just…gone. Between the water damage and the smoke and the actual fire it's just…" Debbie let out a small moan of despair and squeezed Rachel's arm tighter. "I don't know what I'll do. I've worked here for 23 years!"

Rachel nodded dumbly, her mind whirring with concern for her own well-being. The restaurant was the only thing that was keeping her afloat and, even then, it had been just barely. The tears showed up again, trickling down her face in absolute frustration. When Debbie let go of her arm to run over and yell at the owner, Emanuel, for his stupidity, Rachel turned and fled.

She didn't stop moving her long legs for three blocks and when she finally did slow her pace, it was only so that she could grab her worn cell phone out of her handbag and call her father. When he answered, Rachel could picture him sitting behind their big, cherry table in the family's formal dining room. "Hi, Daddy," Rachel said quietly.

"Hey, kitten. What's wrong?"

His simple questioned opened a flood gate and suddenly, Rachel was sobbing as she stood in the street, pouring out her entire horrid situation to her father. She ignored the glares from the busy New Yorkers who were trying to get from point A to point B as fast as possible and didn't appreciate a sobbing woman blocking their paths. She ignored the concerned looks from the tourists nearby, who'd been clicking pictures of some stupid, random billboard but stopped long enough to gawk at her.

"Daddy," she wailed when she was finished retelling her tale, "I don't know what to do."

Hiram cleared his throat. "You can come home," he offered.

"What?" Rachel was shocked at the mere suggestion. Leave New York? "No! That's not the answer. It can't be."

A heavy sigh filled Rachel's ear and she flinched. She could practically hear the disappointment in her father's voice. "Baby," he began, "you've struggled for years. And while you were in college, your father and I had no problem supporting you. But you're 27 years old, Rachel. At some point, you have to accept the fact that maybe Broadway and fame isn't in the cards for you."

Rachel let out a stifled sob, the feeling of her life closing in around her almost making her want to hurl the phone at oncoming traffic. "But Daddy," she argued, "you and Dad have always been my biggest cheerleaders. You were the ones that pushed me so hard as a child to be successful. And now you're telling me to give up? I just… I can't imagine what would possess you to say such a thing!"

"Rachel, stop crying," her father ordered. "I'm being realistic. You are now unemployed and with nothing worth a damn on the horizon, I think you should come home. It doesn't have to be permanent…just long enough to reevaluate and see if you want to continue on your current path. If you do, once you have a plan together, your father and I will possibly support you for a while longer. But right now, you need to come home."

Brushing the tears off her cheeks, Rachel nodded. "I'll think about it." After whispering a pained goodbye to her father, she hung up the phone and hailed a cab.

Twenty minutes later, she was entering Central Park off Fifth Avenue. There was still plenty of daylight left so Rachel took careful, measured steps farther into the bowels of the park. Her senses were filled with everything New York: from the sound of the traffic on the streets bordering the park to the smell of the food vendors along the paths to the sounds of people that she never seemed to be able to escape. And she loved it all. She'd moved to New York as a wide-eyed, determined 18-year-old who was ready to take on the world. And she'd done okay at school, landing a few leads in various production workshops. But there'd always been someone just as strong vocally or with just as much talent or just a tiny bit prettier. She'd felt like she was in high school all over again – always wanting things that seemed to be slightly out of reach. At William McKinley High School, she'd never measured up to Quinn Fabray (except for surpassing her vocally, of course). But her post-college audition process had taught her one very painful lesson: New York City was full of Quinn Fabrays.

Rachel stepped out into the grass on the Great Lawn and, once she'd made sure that there was no dog poop around, she dropped into the grass and pulled her knees up to her chest. Maybe it's time I accept reality, she told herself. Maybe it's time I accept the fact that the only person who sees my star potential is me.

It was a bitter, jagged pill to swallow but it didn't make it any less true. She was now an ex-actress, cut from – if she was completely honest with herself – one of the worst shows in the history of theater. And now, she couldn't even claim her profession to be waitressing since her restaurant sat smoldering. As much as Rachel hated it, the answers she sought were staring her in the face. Even though the idea of going home to Lima, a town she couldn't wait to be free of, was painful, she knew it was her only option. She wasn't living; she merely existed. And it had to stop.

Once she'd accepted her fate, she closed her eyes and listened to the sound of New York City. A month from now, it may be the only memories of the city that she had left.

…

Her fathers were delighted with her decision and immediately booked her a flight to Columbus. She was soon busy with the task of packing up her belongings and selling her old, second-hand furniture. She let her couch go for $20 to the glassy-eyed potheads that lived below her. The small, cramped day bed that had served as her respite from exhaustion sold for $50 to the elderly woman in 6F who'd always wanted "a charming little bed in which I can sit, read Bronte, and sip hot tea." Everything that wasn't personal mementos or of value was donated to the local women's shelter. In less than a week, her apartment was empty, a sign in Rachel's eyes of yet another soul beat into submission by the unforgiving nature of the city.

On her last day in New York City, when she was so downtrodden and melancholy that she felt like the weight of the world was going to pound her into nothing more than a grease spot on the concrete, she checked her mail for the last time. Other than the credit card bill that she couldn't pay and a flyer for a new all-you-can-eat buffet, the only other thing in her tiny sliver of a mailbox was a small, white envelope. She pulled it out and saw "Allen Correctional Institution" in messy scrawl on the top left corner of the envelope.

Noah.

Rachel wanted to rip the letter open and read it right then but she had a plane to catch so she shoved the letter down into the bowels of her purse and ran upstairs to do a final walk-through of her apartment. As she checked the drawers and cabinets for the last time, her mind travelled to a jail cell in Lima. Even then, she still didn't know what had possessed to write her old classmate/former foe/former boyfriend but once Finn had told her of Noah's plight, she'd felt compelled to so. She'd had an inkling that he had to be lonely cooped up in jail and if he was even half as lonely as she felt most of the time, she knew a letter of any kind (as long as it was positive) would lift his spirits. As she made one last sweep of the 350 square feet she'd called home for five years, she refused to allow herself to cry. Her mind on the letter waiting to be read and not on her heartbreak, she grabbed her suitcase, left the mailbox key on the kitchen countertop, and locked the door behind her.

Once she was inside the cab that would take her to LaGuardia and away from her failure of a life, she pulled the envelope from her purse and opened it.

July 21, 2022

Rachel,

Can't say I wasn't shocked to hear from you. I mean, it's been nine years and what feels like a lifetime of fucking up since I heard from you last. But I can honestly tell you that it was a nice distraction from this shithole so for that, I say thanks.

I'm sure Finn told you all about why I'm here but for the short story from me, let's just say that I've got a drinking problem and I know it. I also have a problem with getting caught driving while drunk (which won't be a problem now because my license is suspended anyway). I get out of jail on August 13th and I'm counting the days. No, I don't have shit to do once I get out of here but I'm going crazy behind these fucking bars and I can promise you that I don't ever want to land my ass back here again.

But enough about me. That's awesome that you're doing so well in New York. I always knew you'd take New York by storm. There just wasn't any way you couldn't, ya know? You were always too much for a small town like Lima to handle.

Anyway, you can write back if you feel like it. Oh, and since I'm getting out soon, I put my email address at the bottom. I'm going to be living with my mom again (like a big fucking loser) until I get on my feet.

Take care, Rachel.

And thanks again.

NP

Rachel read the letter twice, her vision blurring when she got to the part about being such a big New York success. Bitter regret seized her for putting that lie in the letter she'd sent to him but at the time, it had seemed like the thing to do. Now, though, the words stung and his assessment of living with his mother like "a loser" burned deep inside her as she faced the same situation. When the tears sprung to her eyes again, she folded the letter carefully and placed it back inside her purse. And then she looked out the window, tears collecting on her lashes, as she said a silent goodbye to the city she loved with all her heart but that had never loved her back.