This story was contributed by Zoe_Blessing

Dear Santa,

In the interest of full disclosure, I am not a child. Not only am I not a child, I'm a grown woman with a grownup job and grownup problems. It's these grownup problems that have me writing to you like some kind of glue-sniffing nutcase.

Why? I don't know. I was walking to work earlier this week when a big, red "Letters to Santa" box appeared on the sidewalk one day. I thought it was cute. I'm pretty sure it's a marketing ploy for the accounting office behind the box, but still. What a nice idea to give some kids hope.

I've been walking past this box every day now for a week. Now here I am, pouring out my guts on paper because, I don't know, there's just something about a personal letter to a mythical figure that feels so compelling. Maybe it's because I got that shiny blue bike I'd wanted so badly after writing a letter to you about it when I was eight. Remember that?

Or maybe it was that one year when I wrote to you asking for nothing except to get my parents to stop fighting. Well, a divorce wasn't exactly what I was asking for, but it certainly stopped the fighting, didn't it? They're actually good friends now, believe it or not. I guess they just couldn't live together.

Now, twenty years later, I'm writing a letter to Santa again. I'll probably just throw this away when I finish writing it, but for a few precious moments, I'd like to suspend reality and believe there really is some magical, kind, wish-granting, bearded grandpa figure out there, listening to me.

So here's the thing: I'm gay. Oh my god, it feels so weird writing that. Yet it feels right. There's no doubt in my mind that I like women. And that I'm probably doomed. Because I'm also terribly shy. If I was straight, then at least the onus for asking someone out is on the guy, right? But how does that work between women? I have no idea. I'll probably just turn into a musty, mumbling spinster with a house full of ferrets. I mean, I like cats, but they're so cliché.

My mom started dating this construction worker. I know this letter is turning into a rambling, pointless soliloquy, but hear me out. I really do want my mom to be happy, and if satisfying one of her Village People fantasies with a fifty-year-old man in a tool belt does that for her, then more power to her. But deep in the selfish recesses of my depressed, gay mind, I was kind of hoping we would be empowered single ladies together. Or something.

I don't think I'm making sense anymore. I guess I'm just lonely. I mean, I MUST be lonely if I'm writing a letter to Santa! I'm not usually this sad and pathetic. Truly. I'm actually an accomplished graphic designer with a full-time job and everything. I'm just having a moment of weakness, I guess. Probably brought on by my mom's excited proclamations over her new beau's "pinchable butt".

I should probably burn this now. Erase all evidence of my sanity loss.

Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow. For today, I'll pretend you exist, and that on Christmas Day I'll get to unwrap the girl of my dreams.

Sincerely,

Leona

Carmen set the letter down and leaned back in her office chair. When the senior partner of the accounting firm had excitedly tossed this "Letters to Santa" project in her lap, Carmen hadn't exactly jumped for joy. The woman had blathered on about giving back to their community, showing the softer side of accounting or some such nonsense.

Carmen wasn't the sentimental type. Sloppy letters from snotty children demanding ridiculous toys were not her idea of boosting community pride. But this...

She picked up the letter and examined the elegant handwriting. This was someone baring her soul. She could relate to the thoughts on this page. It had taken Carmen ages to admit to herself that she liked women. Had taken even longer to utter the word lesbian to the mirror. To this day, her Latin family still couldn't understand why she would "choose" to live this "lifestyle".

At least they still talk to me, she supposed. The support groups she'd gone to were full of people whose families had ostracized them. Just for being gay.

She shook the ruminations from her head and focused on the small stack of hand-written letters on her desk. She was supposed to write back to these kids as if she was Santa, but she had no idea what she was supposed to say. How about, Dear kid, there's no such thing as Santa Claus. Now stop whining for more useless crap and go clean your room.

The thought made her smile.

"See? I knew you'd enjoy it! Keep up the good work!" The senior partner who'd come up with this onerous idea had paused at her doorway, blurted her enthusiasm, and then raced off with such briskness, Carmen could almost see the cartoon dust cloud kicking up in the woman's wake.

Carmen sighed. Her eyes drifted back to Leona's letter. She liked that name, Leona.

Leona the graphic designer.

Leona the lonely lesbian.

Carmen smiled at the alliteration.

Leona, who worked somewhere walking distance from here.

The thought did funny things to her usually carefully guarded feelings. Something about the wistful tone of the letter had wormed its way past Carmen's armor and touched a part of her psyche she thought had shriveled up long ago.

She made up her mind. She would write back. Show Leona she wasn't as alone or lost as she thought. The girl just needed a sympathetic ear. Why else would she have dropped the letter into the box instead of burning it like she'd planned?

Carmen pushed the other letters aside, tore a sheet of paper from her legal pad, and began to write.

***

Leona blew warm air into her cupped hands as she walked. It felt good for about two seconds, then they got cold again. That would teach her misplace her gloves in December. They were probably hanging out in Jamaica with her self-respect, which she'd lost when she let that silly letter slip out of her fingers and into the slot of the Letters to Santa box.

What had she been thinking? Someone was probably laughing at her now, wondering what kind of sad sack of sorrow made a grown woman write to Santa Claus.

Insanity, that's what it was. Pure insanity. Because why else would she have signed her own name on the damn thing? At least she'd had the presence of mind not to put her address on it. No one could return-to-sender, or worse, answer the letter, telling her to grow up and write to an advice column instead. She could put this whole embarrassing thing behind her and pretend it never happened.

Her steps involuntarily slowed as she got closer to the accounting firm's modest office building. A festive wreath hung on the front door, and red ribbons adorned the windows. Leona was tempted to peek through one of the windows to, what, see if people were laughing at her letter?

Don't be ridiculous, she thought to herself. This wasn't high school. Not that anyone laughed at her in high school. People would've had to notice her first.

Stop! No more self-pity. It was good that people ignored her in high school. No one bothered her, and that allowed her to focus on her studies. She was an adult now, and her boss liked her, and her coworkers were nice. Life was going well. Mostly.

She glanced at the familiar Letters to Santa box and stopped in her tracks.

No way.

No. Freaking. Way.

An envelope was taped to the front of the box. An envelope that was never there before. Printed in neat block letters... was her name.

She blinked several times and looked again. LEONA. Yup, it was her name all right.

Or maybe it was for someone else named Leona. Yeah, that must be it.

Who was she kidding? This couldn't possibly be coincidence. The accountants were ordering her to stop being creepy and leave the letter-writing to kids. They wanted to tell her off, but didn't have her address, thank goodness.

She stared at the envelope, unable to make her hands move. It certainly was a clever idea to stick the letter where she was likely to see it. Why couldn't they just let it be? Throw away her dumb confessions like she'd expected them to? Why did someone choose now not to ignore her?

She wanted to keep walking. To keep pretending like she hadn't lost her mind the other day. But her feet wouldn't move either. Great, her hands were frozen, and now her feet as well.

Leona chewed on her lip, debating. She didn't know why, though. She had to see what someone thought was important enough to write to her about, right?

Her eyes darted around to make sure no one was watching, then she snatched the envelope and hurried away.

Once she reached the cozy warmth of her office—and once her fingers had thawed enough to function—she opened the envelope and began reading the letter inside.

Dear Leona,

I hope this letter finds you well. I hope this letter finds you at all, actually. Considering you didn't leave a return address, this was the only way I could think of to reach you. I hope you don't mind.

I just wanted to let you know that I hear you. Epiphanies about our sexuality are never easy, and you should know that you aren't alone. And you aren't doomed either. You'll find your way, just like I found mine. Just take things day by day. And use support groups! You can find many online if you want to stay anonymous. Join a few, and you'll discover how not-alone you really are.

In case you haven't gathered, I'm not really Santa Claus. Consider me a helper elf. The big man has had to outsource his work over the years, and I was lucky enough to get this job. You sound like a person I could be friends with. An elf could always use more friends. It can get lonely in a workroom full of nothing but industrious elves.

Ever get coffee at the corner shop? You know, the one with all the pastries dipped in chocolate beckoning from the window? I highly recommend it.

Yours,

Helper Elf

Leona read the letter three more times, still not quite believing the response she'd gotten. This helper elf person was so nice. Maybe she was reading too much into it, but this person seemed to get her. Had understood the weird way Leona had reached out from her loneliness. Had actually reached back to touch her through a letter.

You'll find your way, just like I found mine. Her helper elf had to be another lesbian, right? Or, she supposed, it could be a gay man. Or just some compassionate person who found their way, whatever way that was. Either way, it was kind, and Leona was grateful for it.

She pondered that last paragraph, though. Was Helper Elf inviting her to coffee?

She shook her head. No, of course not, that would be far-fetched. Why would a total stranger want to meet a desperate spinster anywhere?

Still... maybe she should check out that little pastry shop on the corner. She didn't have any appointments this morning. Maybe a little pick-me-up in caffeine form was in order.

***

The girl was cute, Carmen had admitted to herself when she watched the woman walk away that morning, letter in hand. Blond hair had been poking out from beneath a green knitted hat. Stylish glasses sat upon her pert nose, and she strode with quick, purposeful steps.

What had the girl been thinking, Carmen wondered, when she was standing in front of the box, staring at the taped envelope? Carmen had been spying from her office window on the second floor like some kind of stalker. She couldn't help it. She had to know who this Leona person was.

Leona the lovely, lonely lesbian, her brain chorused.

Shut up, brain.

She must be a bit desperate herself, thinking of a complete stranger this way.

But was she really a complete stranger? The woman had bared a small piece of her soul in a letter, and something within Carmen had responded to that. What did it mean?

Half an hour later, she conceded that she was making no progress whatsoever. She'd been staring vacuously at the spreadsheet on her computer screen while her mind lingered on a certain letter from a certain graphic designer. The numbers on the screen, which had made sense yesterday, mocked her this morning.

Coffee. She needed coffee.

She needed coffee with a chocolate-covered pastry. And maybe a lobotomy. Before she even realized she'd grabbed her coat and purse, she found herself halfway to the pastry shop on the corner.

Chocolate croissant or chocolate scone? Both sounded good. Maybe she could—Carmen froze in the middle of the sidewalk.

No. That couldn't be her, could it? Carmen had mentioned the bakery on a whim, but didn't think the woman would immediately go there.

Or did she? She hated to admit it, but it was possible that a tiny scrap of hope had been perched in the back of her mind, silently guiding her hand when she wrote the reply letter.

And there Leona was, her green knitted cap unmistakable in the window. She sat on a stool by herself, hands wrapped around a steaming mug and head bent over a letter.

The letter Carmen had written. She recognized the yellow page torn from her legal pad. What should she do now? Walk away immediately? Get her breakfast and flee? Introduce herself?

She felt her heart racing at the last thought. She couldn't possibly. What would she even say?

The girl lifted her head and glanced up at her through the window.

Amazing blue eyes met hers, and Carmen forced herself to look away. To resume walking. To not look like a creepy stalker weirdo.

She should leave. Immediately. She should go back to her office and pour herself a cup of watery breakroom coffee and be glad for it. She could probably dig up some crackers to go with it. Or an apple.

Yeah.

She went inside.

She carefully avoided looking in Leona's direction, and instead concentrated on the heavenly scent of freshly baked goods and brewing coffee. She would just grab her sustenance and scamper away like a mouse.

"We're brewing a fresh batch of the organic coffee, so it'll be a few minutes. Sorry for the wait," the barista informed her after taking her money.

Damn it. So much for scampering away like a mouse.

She shuffled to one corner to wait for her order. Studied the array of decorative mugs available for sale. Picked at her fingernails. Then her eyes began straying to the set of stools along the window where Leona sat. Maybe a small peek would be all right. She was human, after all.

Leona was still there. She was gazing up at the sky through the window as if in a daydream, and it made Carmen wonder what the girl was thinking about. She couldn't see her face, but she could imagine those intense blue eyes. Inexplicably, she wanted to see them focused on her again.

She should talk to her.

No! That was a horrible idea. What would she even say? Hi! You don't know me, but I've been kinda sorta stalking you ever since you wrote a private letter to an imaginary person. Yeah, no way she was doing that. No way—

Wait, why was she walking over there?

"Hi," her mouth said before Carmen came to her senses.

Questioning blue eyes lifted to hers. Bam. Even though glasses, their intensity knocked Carmen's good sense back into the weeds.

The girl waited.

Say something, idiot! Carmen cleared her throat. "Is this seat taken?"

"Oh. No. Go ahead."

Was that disappointment Carmen heard in the girl's soft voice?

"Thanks," Carmen said before settling onto the stool. What the heck was she doing? She wasn't sure, but it was too late to leave now.

***

Leona slid her eyes to the beautiful woman sitting next to her for what felt like the twentieth time. Long dark hair cascaded over her shoulders to frame an exquisite face. She found her fingers itching to reach out and touch the warm, brown skin of the stranger's wrist. Just a quick touch, to see if this amazing creature was real.

Stop it, she told herself. You're being weird.

"Excuse me?" the woman said.

Crap, had she said that aloud? "Oh, um, nothing. I was just... uh, nothing." Shut up, shut up!

The woman nodded serenely, as if Leona wasn't an awkward lunatic tripping over her own tongue. Why was she here anyway? Why was she sitting next to her when the place was half empty? When this woman had asked if the stool was taken, Leona had thought she'd wanted to take it somewhere else.

"Is that any good?" the exotic creature next to her asked, pointing to her coffee.

Leona looked at her mug, which was nearly empty. "Oh, yes. The best! I can't believe I haven't been in here sooner."

The woman nodded again. "I'm glad."

She was? "You are?"

The woman's dark eyes widened a fraction. "I mean, yeah. Everyone should enjoy their coffee, right?"

"Carmen! Organic roast!" a barista called out from across the room.

The woman exhaled with seeming relief. Her eyes darted to Leona. "It was nice meeting you." She stood, hesitated, and then weaved her way between tables with the smooth grace of a gazelle to claim her coffee.

Carmen. Leona's eyes followed as the woman made her way to the station where all the creamers and sugar packets awaited. Her name is Carmen. Would she see Carmen again? Maybe she should start coming here every day. She wanted to know more about this dazzling, organic-drinking siren.

The woman looked up from stirring her coffee. Looked straight at her.

Leona wheeled back to the window with a gasp, mortified at being caught staring. She gulped down her remaining coffee. Coming here every day would be a bad idea. Why torture herself? She wasn't in high school anymore. Grown women weren't supposed to get crushes, right? She would sit a few minutes more to allow the woman time to leave, and then she would never come here again.

"Leona."

She jumped at the sound of her name being whispered beside her. Tried not to swoon when she discovered the beautiful Carmen standing there, dark eyes nervous and expectant. Had she really whispered Leona's name with those divine lips?

Wait, how did she know her name?

The woman slid a napkin across the counter toward Leona, smiled, and then rushed away.

Leona watched her go. Her steps were quick and hurried like she was late for something.

Or running away from something.

Leona was so confused.

She looked down at the napkin. Did she drip coffee on her shirt? She wouldn't be surprised.

Then she noticed the imprint of something written on the other side of the napkin. She flipped the napkin over and read what it said.

Let's talk some more, it said. A phone number was printed beneath that. And at the bottom of the napkin, she'd signed her name.

–Carmen, aka Helper Elf

Leona blinked hard. She had to be imagining things.

She looked again.

–Carmen, aka Helper Elf

Helper Elf? Her breath quickened. Leona's helper elf?

She swallowed and peered out the window, looking for the escaping Carmen, but she was already gone.

With fumbling hands, Leona fished the letter out of her bag and held it up next to the napkin.

The handwriting was identical.

What the—

Leona couldn't even finish a complete thought. Stunned didn't even begin to describe how she felt. What was going on here?

Carmen was Helper Elf. Leona had written an embarrassing letter, mailed it into the ether, and Carmen had been the one to receive it. And she'd replied! She'd replied with kindness and understanding and oh my god she knows who I am now.

Leona broke out into a sweat. She wasn't sure why. Panic attacks were never a thing for her. This situation was just too weird. Too surreal.

Too magical.

She nearly burst into hysterical laughter. Christmas magic? Really? Was this when Leona would finally break from reality and go screaming into the street, flinging her clothes in all directions?

She slurped at the last drops of coffee clinging to the bottom of her mug. Slowed her breathing to a reasonable pace. Tried to regain her senses.

Logic raised its tiny hand, trying to get her attention. You wrote a letter, it reminded her. She replied. She suggested a bakery. You went there. She found you. She gave you her number.

Surely it couldn't be as simple as that?

She wants to talk some more. She said so in the note.

Leona read the napkin ten more times.

Carmen couldn't have spelled it out more plainly than that. She wanted to clear the air and talk without the specter of a secret Helper Elf identity.

Leona smiled, filled with appreciation for the fact that Carmen did not want to play games. Leona didn't do relationship games either.

On that thought, she pulled out her phone. Her finger hovered over the number pad.

Was she really going to call right this second? Was she that desperate?

She set her phone down and looked at the napkin again. Looked at the letter beside it. A line from the letter jumped out at her. You'll find your way.

Maybe Carmen was her way. She would never know unless she tried.

With courage she didn't know she had, Leona took a deep breath.

And dialed the number.

Zoe is a web designer by day, and superhero by night. Novelist. She meant to say novelist by night. She lives in San Diego, California, where she enjoys ice cream, practicing acts of kindness, and writing whatever strikes her fancy. Writing is joy. Check out more from Zoe here.