The train pulled out of Eastcliff just after sunrise.
Alia sat by the window, her journal open but untouched in her lap. Her breath fogged the glass as the sleepy coastal town faded into mist, each clap of the rails feeling like a countdown.
She had Micah's letter in her coat pocket.
Still sealed.
Still heavy.
She didn't open it. Not yet.
Because if she did—if she read his words—she wasn't sure she'd make it past the next station.
---
New York was louder than she remembered.
Taxi horns. Sirens. Voices. The air pressed tighter against her lungs, like the city had never learned how to whisper.
Her hotel was sleek and cold—too much chrome, too many straight lines. Her name was on a printed card at the front desk. InkHouse had paid for two nights.
She dropped her bag on the bed and exhaled.
So far, everything felt surreal. Sharp. Not quite real.
---
That evening
The publishing event was held in a converted loft in SoHo. Velvet chairs, wine glasses sweating under warm lights, and the quiet hum of conversations she used to chase: editors, writers, critics. People who lived in words like she did—but wore them more like armor than skin.
Alia wore soft blue linen and trembling confidence.
She stepped onto the stage when they called her name.
Read from her manuscript.
She was halfway through the poem when she saw someone in the crowd scribbling aggressively in a notebook, barely listening.
And for the first time, she didn't feel flattered.
She felt tired.
When she finished, they clapped.
Loud. Polite. Distant.
A woman from InkHouse approached her after. "You've got a very vulnerable tone," she said, touching Alia's arm lightly. "Raw in a way that's marketable."
Alia forced a smile.
Micah had never called her raw.
He'd just said: "You write like you're trying to stitch things back together."
And somehow, that had felt more like truth.
---
Back in the hotel
She stood by the window, overlooking lights that never went out.
The letter was still in her coat pocket.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal.
Inside, Micah's handwriting curved gently across a single page.
> "Alia,"
You once asked me what love looks like outside of poetry.
I think it looks like letting someone go, even when you want them to stay.
It's standing in the bookstore after you've left, pretending the wind isn't asking where you went.
It's watching the tea go cold without someone to tease about it.
But it's also believing that the people we love don't vanish when they leave.
They just echo in the quiet until the door opens again.
So go. Write. Read to strangers.
But know that every sentence you've ever whispered beside me is still here—between the walls, on the keys, in the air.
And so am I.
— Micah
She pressed the page to her chest and closed her eyes.
She didn't cry.
But something shifted.
Something opened.
---
The next day
She woke up early and skipped the second showcase. Took a train to her old apartment building. Walked the streets where she used to run poetry slams. Let the wind bite her cheeks. Sat on a bench and opened her journal.
She finally began to write again.
Not for applause.
Not for approval.
But for him.
For her.
For them.
---