---
It arrived at 9:06 p.m.
A plain white envelope. No name. No return address. Just my apartment number written in familiar, messy handwriting—like the pen had been held by shaking fingers.
I didn't open it right away.
I held it. Sat with it.
Let the weight of the paper remind me that even ghosts can still send letters.
Zayne had texted earlier, asking if I wanted to watch the stars from the rooftop again.
I didn't answer.
Not because I didn't want to see him—
But because I wasn't ready for anyone to see me break.
---
The envelope trembled in my hands as I sat on the edge of my bed.
The last time I opened something from Luca, it was a playlist.
Twenty-two songs. Each one tied to a memory.
Our first kiss.
The first time he said "I love you."
The night we sat under the freeway bridge and talked about death like it was a song still waiting to be written.
This time, it wasn't music.
It was silence written in ink.
---
I opened the letter.
> Amaya,
I don't know how to start this without sounding like a coward.
Maybe because I was one.
Maybe because I still am.
I left because someone told me if I didn't, they'd ruin your name. Your family. Your art. Everything you built with your bare hands.
They said I was a weakness you couldn't afford.
And maybe they were right.
I didn't tell you because I knew you'd fight it. You'd tell me we could survive anything.
And maybe we could have.
But I wasn't strong enough to risk it.
I know I broke you.
I know I tore something beautiful into pieces.
But I never stopped loving you.
I still don't know how to.
I see your paintings sometimes. In galleries. In newsfeeds. In dreams.
And I wonder if any of them are about me.
Or worse—if all of them are.
I won't ask for forgiveness.
Just…
remember that my goodbye wasn't a whisper.
It was a scream I couldn't make out loud.
—Luca
---
I read it once.
Then again.
Then I folded it in half, then into quarters, then so small it could've fit in my palm like a shard of glass.
I didn't cry.
Not yet.
I just sat there, breathing shallow, while the letter burned through every wall I had rebuilt.
He left to protect me.
He loved me.
And he still chose to go.
---
I walked to the bathroom. Stared at my reflection.
There she was—this version of me I didn't quite recognize anymore.
Eyes darker. Smile softer.
But something else too: resilience.
Maybe love doesn't always look like staying.
Maybe sometimes, love means walking away with bleeding feet because you believe they're safer without you.
---
I found Nia on the couch.
She was reading an old novel of mine from university. Her eyes were puffy, but she looked calm in the way the sea looks calm before a storm.
"You okay?" I asked.
She looked up, blinking. "No. But I'm trying to be."
She patted the seat beside her.
I sat down. Laid my head on her shoulder.
"I hated him," I said. "And I think… part of me still does."
"That's okay," she whispered. "Hate is just love wearing armor."
---
Later that night, I sent a voice note to Zayne.
> "The letter came."
"I don't know what it means for me yet. But thank you for not asking me to be okay before I'm ready."
His reply came an hour later.
> "You don't owe anyone forgiveness, Amaya."
"But you do owe yourself peace."
---
The next morning, I woke up early.
Painted until the sun rose.
This time, it wasn't of heartbreak.
It was of a girl walking through a burned forest with fire still on her back—
But light blooming at her feet.
---