thing

[div style="text-align:justify;font-size:11px;letter-spacing:0.5px;padding:20px;"]In the cramped space that had become the new home to Richard Cassidy and Paige Montgomery, you’d find pieces of parchment and papers with writing crammed on them. This was how the two spoke in passing.

Written on the envelope that once housed Paige’s acceptance letter:
[i][span style="margin-left:340px;"]I got in[/span]

[span style="margin-left:340px;"]“Wow good job Anya! Proud of you Anya!” Dickhead[/span][div align="right"]I saw. Do not speak to me like that, Anya[/div]
[span style="margin-left:340px;"]I need money for school supplies[/span]

[span style="margin-left:340px;"]Nevermind. Forget I asked. [/span]
[div align="right"]Good.[/div][/i]
On a piece of extra parchment:
[i][span style="margin-left:340px;"]Can I get a broom for school?[/span][div align="right"]Do you think we have that type of money?[/div][span style="margin-left:340px;"]Yes.[/span][div align="right"]No, you can’t[/div][span style="margin-left:340px;"]Can I have one next year? I want to play quidditch[/span][div align="right"]You’ll do fine on a school broom[/div][/i]
Even when Paige went to school, it didn’t stop. There’s a pile of unreplied to owls.
[span style="margin-left:300px;"]One:[/span]
[span style="margin-left:340px;"][i]Can we go home over the summer?[/i][/span]
[span style="margin-left:300px;"]Two:[/span]
[i][span style="margin-left:340px;"]Hey Dick, got in trouble cause you can’t [/span]
[span style="margin-left:340px;"]be bothered to buy me what I need (:[/span][/i]
[span style="margin-left:300px;"]Three:[/span]
[i][span style="margin-left:340px;"]Are you like…my listed guardian? What name are you under?[/span]
[span style="margin-left:340px;"]I don’t think you’ll get a letter home or anything but just…[/span]
[span style="margin-left:340px;"]In case someone asks me about you, I guess[/span][/i]
[span style="margin-left:300px;"]Four:[/span]
[span style="margin-left:340px;"][i]I hate you. I hope MACUSA finds us. [/i][/span]

The final owl lays untouched on the top of the pile, ignored. The ink was now running, having been made wet with drinks on top of it as Richard hadn’t cared to move her letters from the spot where he put his glass. Instead they sat unreplied as coasters. They’d likely find their way to the trash before he’d ever write back.
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