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Me has a request Pen pals who meet for the first time because the last letter that was sent was so sad the one who received it (reader or timothee) just had to meet the other pen pal (like the letter was about how they felt alone and need someone by their side or someone important to them is in hospital and the writer is in need of a companion to help them through it something like that) you pick if timothée or the reader is the sad one and if it is fluff, smut or angst. Hope I am somewhat understandable hehe.
Pen Pal
A/N - this is short because I have a whole pen pals series here is chap 1 https://www.tumblr.com/sufferingstarlight/694937406888132608/hey-could-you-do-one-where-tim-and-the-reader-are
Info - depression, first meeting, not taking care of self
It had been too long. He hasn’t sent a letter in weeks. I wanted to be normal about it. We were just pen pals after all. It wasn’t as if we were partners. I didn’t know if I should even call us friends.
His last letter had been about how he was lonely. He said he was stressed, tired, and touch starved. He said he didn’t know how much longer he could manage to go on. I was worried for him. He had even included a small print out of Oscar Isaac saying the quote “I’m tired, I thought I just needed a night’s sleep, but it’s more than that.”
I had quickly sent a letter back full of praises and encouragement. I hadn’t heard a thing back. So I was here, where the letters had been addressed from. I stood in front of the door with a nervous energy. I moved from one foot to another as I prepared to knock on the door.
I finally did it. I rapped my knuckles against the wood of the door. I sighed as I waited. I heard footsteps. I realised I didn’t even know if it would be Timothée who answered the door. I didn’t know what he looked like.
I wondered if he’d be able to sense who I was. I described myself in our letters, and we knew one another’s ages. I didn’t know if he had an idea of me in his head or-
The door opened.
There stood a skinny man. Even though I knew from our correspondence that he was naturally thin, he looked gaunt right now. His hair was spectacular on a normal day I was sure, but tight it laid in limp, greasy, strands. I knew once washed they’d bounce up and curl. His green eyes had a hollowness about them. Small patches of stubble grew, showing he hadn’t shaved.
“Y/n?” The name was a croak, as if he was unused to using his voice.
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Why are you here?” He asked, rubbing his eyes. He looked almost like a child, helpless and hopeless.
“You haven’t been sending any letters,” I whispered.
“Oh,” he said and some colour came to his cheeks. “I’m very sorry. I haven’t been doing well.”
Silence stretched between us because it was very obvious he wasn’t doing well. I wanted to shoot my shot. I wanted to help him.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
“My house….. it’s very messy,” he hesitated and looked ashamed. My heart reached out to him. I knew what depression could do.
“It’s okay, let me help you,” I offered.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I know. I want to. Please let me.”
“Okay,” he finally sighed and moved aside so I could come in. I came in, ready to accept him, now matter what was going on.
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