Not unless he had something to say.
Savannah closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply before finally sliding her thumb under the flap, breaking the seal.
Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the folded page.
She hesitated once more, her breath catching, her heartbeat an unsteady rhythm in her chest.
Then, finally—
She read.
Dear Savannah,
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because it’s easier than saying it out loud. Maybe because putting it down on paper makes it feel less like a confession and more like a release. Or maybe—maybe because some words are meant to be written, not spoken. Because if I said them out loud, I don’t think I’d ever stop.
I don’t expect you to read this. Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll send it. But I need to get this out, even if it never reaches you.
It’s been a year. A year of silence. A year of trying to convince myself that I’m fine. That you’re fine. A year since you walked away, since I stood on that dock and let you go. A year since I swallowed every instinct screaming at me to fight, to beg, to do whatever it took to make you stay.
But I didn’t.
I told myself I wouldn’t be that guy—the one who clings to something that isn’t his to hold. The one who makes it harder than it already was. And yet, here I am, writing a letter to a woman who isn’t mine anymore.
I guess some things never change.
Mallory said you’re doing okay. That you’re finding your way. I don’t know if that’s true or if she was just trying to soften the edges of something that still cuts too deep. But I hope it is. God, I hope it is. I hope you’ve found whatever you were looking for when you left. I hope the restless ache in your chest isn’t as heavy as it used to be. I hope that, wherever you are, you feel lighter. Freer.
And I hope—deep down—that you still think of me sometimes, too.
I hope you look back on those two weeks we had and smile. I hope you remember the way we laughed until we couldn’t breathe, until our stomachs hurt and our faces ached, until the whole world outside of us didn’t seem to exist. I hope you remember the stupid games we played in the truck, how you cheated at twenty-one questions and still lost. I hope you remember how you tried to beat me at pool and failed spectacularly, then made me promise never to bring it up again.
I hope you remember the way we sat on that dock, the way the water reflected the stars, the way the air smelled like salt and summer, the way you leaned into me like you never wanted to be anywhere else.
I hope you remember the night at Low-Tide, and smile about the embarrassment of Jenna. And I hope you remember how I told you that, no matter what, I’d always be in your corner.
And more than anything? I hope you’re happy.
I wish I could tell you that I have been. That I woke up one morning and suddenly,everything made sense again. That I stopped hearing your laugh in every damn song, stopped catching the faintest trace of you in my truck, stopped rolling over in bed, half-asleep, reaching for you like some fool who forgot that the love of his life walked out the door.
But you and I both know I’ve never been good at lying.
I’ve gone out, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve been to Low-Tide, seen the same faces, danced with a few new ones. Women have tried to get my attention. Some of them probably should have.
But none of them have.
Because none of them are you.
And that’s not me holding onto something that’s already gone. That’s just the truth.
The house isn’t the same without you. It’s just walls and floors and a roof now. Just a place where I sleep but never really rest. A place that used to feel like home, but now? Now it just feels like a reminder. A weight pressing in from all sides. So I’m selling it.
The realtor comes next week to take photos. Soon, someone else will live here. Someone else will stand on that dock and watch the sunrise. Someone else will fill this space with new laughter, with new memories, with something that isn’t the ghost of us.
Maybe that’s what needs to happen. Maybe I need to let this place go so I can finally let you go.
But before I do, I needed to say this.
I never called you—not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I wouldn’t be able to hear your voice and pretend like we’re just two people catching up. I wouldn’t be able to ask how you’re doing without wanting to get in my truck and drive straight to Asheville. I wouldn’t be able to hear you say my name without wanting to pull you back into my arms and tell you that leaving was a mistake.
