Letter to Ira

Little by little, everything burns up.
In a few moments, the entire planet will combust.

In a few more lines, Vorkuta-5 will disappear. That was the plan, at least. Writing it is another matter entirely. A famous author once said: every story starts from the end. That as an author, you should write the end first, because wrapping up loose ends is harder than drawing the threads. I tried that for a month or so before giving up—remember how I’d write you poems in the library? I used to write stories too. But I’d always write them from the beginning, because that was the fun part, when everyone is friends and nothing awful has happened. Imagining the end meant imagining the middle, and the middle is where things are at their worst, when people fight and argue and go missing. The conflict that every story needs to have.

I hate conflict. I hate Vadim’s pranks. I hate it when you call me a creep when we meet in the snowy playground. I hate it when you go missing, Ira. But all of this needs to happen! Like how Angelique’s husband dies in war and she gets sold into slavery! You love that series, don’t you? Readers love conflict and the catharsis that follows. There’s no point writing a story nobody wants to read, so I always write conflict into my stories. It really hurts, but it’s worth it.

After all, you liked my poem. Right? I would write you poems for the rest of my life if you read them all. Maybe you wouldn’t like them all. That’s fine. I’d figure it out, one poem at a time. And you’d save me from Vadim like you always do, like how day follows night. It might be pathetic to admit, greedy, even, but I don’t mind Vadim’s pranks, not really, because you wouldn’t save me if there was nothing to save me from.

But I know her better than any other person on planet Earth.
And I think… she knows me better than anyone, too.

The ring of fire closes in and the air boils. It’s about time to write the end, but there’s no rush. I’ll get to it eventually. You know, I went to the lake the other day. I imagined what we could have been, written differently. You’d escort me down the pier and I’d flap my arms and say I never learned to swim! and you’d look at me with pity, unsurprised that I could be any more useless than I already was, say something like did your parents never teach you? and I’d shake my head, looking at my feet, knowing that the moment was approaching, that you would help me somehow—

—and then you’d push me. I’d fall backwards, my weight tipping over my heel, hanging still in the air for a moment, tears of surprise glittering in the air, a full moon above you. A faint smile on your face that said that you would follow me, that you would not let me out of your sight. I would only have enough time to take a single deep breath before plunging into the water.

You’d watch me flounder for a bit before diving in to help me, moving my limbs to position me upright and on my back, teaching me to relax. You seem like a good teacher, so it wouldn’t take long. We’d both float on our backs, our bodies parallel but pointed in opposite directions, our faces close enough to touch. You’d say something like see? Wasn’t that easy? and I’d nod nervously, too afraid to lose my balance and roll into the water. We’d float on and on, further from the shore, under the stars, until it became impossible to turn back—

—Sorry! That was too much. Besides, if we floated that deep into the lake, we’d drown and the story would end there… Nobody would read such a dull story. But a lake scene might be nice for next time, don’t you think? I’ll keep it in mind. We could go fishing, maybe, or just sit on the pier and read books together. I would really like that.

Even after witnessing my lowest, most embarrassing, most disgusting moments,
she’s still giving me such an earnest smile.
My best friend in the whole entire world.

Stories and poems are like snowglobes—self-contained worlds that anyone can look into. Nobody makes opaque snowglobes. They’re always made of glass because they’re meant to be looked at. Rather, what’s inside the snowglobe only ‘exists’ when looked at. Come to think of it, I wrote something like this at the beginning, didn’t I? Universes want to be seen, so they create sentient observers—plus ones. Cute…

On the other hand, snowglobes can’t create anything. But they can be ‘created’ repeatedly: once, when written for the first time, again, when read in a comfy chair or by a lake, again and again and again until there is nobody left to read it. Each and every time from the first word to the last, all acts in sequence, the highs and the lows, the conflict and the catharsis, the day and the night.

This is why stories need conflict. They must be interesting, or nobody would read them, and our snowglobe would remain locked in a dusty drawer forever. Our beautiful home, Vorkuta-5, the town that does not exist, would never reappear, and neither would its people, us, you, Ira.

You asked me to write you a poem once, and I did, and you liked it.

But I am a greedy person. I want you to read my poem again. And again. And again. So I created this snowglobe, Ira. A world where my favourite person in the world disappears and a group of students try to find her. A mystery story—readers love those, don’t they? A story that keeps its cards close to its chest, that demands you read it till the end to understand. A story you can enjoy more than once. A river of meandering stars passing by, each peeking into our snowglobe, each reading our story from start to finish, each constructing a stage—Vorkuta-5—upon which we may exist once more. You save me each time. That is all I need, all I have ever wished for.

So I turn around and place my hands on the glass. I look up in prayer at the stars.
There are so many of them, uncountable, all twinkling and waiting expectantly.

I have a transmission for you.
In three…
Two…
One…!