Chapter 37: The Letter She Never Sent
The morning light spilled softly across Evelyn's apartment. It brushed over forgotten books, untouched coffee cups, and memories scattered like old photographs. Adrian was still asleep on the couch, his expression peaceful for once. There was no guilt, no heaviness. Just rest.
Evelyn sat at the kitchen table with a weathered envelope in her hand. It was older than any of Adrian's letters. Older than their arguments or reconciliations. She had written it years ago. But she had never sent it.
It was addressed to him.
Adrian Hale.
She traced the handwriting with her fingers and slowly opened it. She never thought she would. But something about last night—his honesty, his regret, the way he had looked at her when he said he never stopped—made her want to face the version of herself who had once loved him without hesitation.
She unfolded the page.
"Adrian,
By the time you read this, if you ever do, you might not even remember the way I used to smile at you.
You always said I saw the world too kindly. That I forgave too easily. That I loved with a kind of madness no one deserved. And maybe you were right.
Because even now, after all the silence and all the shadows between us, I still find myself looking for you in a crowd. I still wait for a text I know will never come. I still hope some part of you misses me the way I miss you.
I should be angry. I should be done.
But here's the truth you never understood.
Loving you wasn't a choice. It was the most natural, terrifying, inevitable thing I've ever known.
Even in the pain, especially in the pain, I kept finding reasons to believe you were still in there. Still the man who once held my hand like it was the only real thing in the world.
But I'm tired, Adrian.
Tired of waiting for a version of you that remembers how to stay.
Tired of hoping that one day, you'll choose me in the light, not just miss me in the dark.
So if this is the last thing I ever write to you, let it be this.
I loved you. I still do. But I'm finally learning to love myself more.
And that means letting you go.
Evelyn"**
Adrian stirred on the couch. He turned his head, still half-asleep, and saw her sitting there with an envelope pressed to her lips.
"Is that...?" His voice was quiet and rough with sleep.
She nodded and offered him the letter.
He didn't open it. Not right away. He simply held it in both hands, staring at the handwriting. At her.
"I never got this," he said softly.
"No," she replied. "You were never supposed to."
"Why now?"
She looked at him. No anger. No walls. Just something honest.
"Because maybe... we're finally ready to read it."
And in that quiet kitchen, with sunlight streaming in and words hanging between them, they both knew something had changed. Not everything was fixed. Not everything was clear. But the letter had finally been opened.
And maybe that was enough.