This time, there it was. A thin envelope folded over once. My name, just M, written in unfamiliar, blocky handwriting. No return address, of course. Just a stamp and the sense that my entire heartbeat had somehow landed inside my chest again and was knocking from the inside.
For a second, I just… stared at it. My first instinct wasn’t joy. It was a weird, clenched panic, like I’d opened a door and found someone already on the other side, hand raised to knock. He wrote back. My hand shook as I pulled it out, fingers brushing along the ridge of the stamp. The paper felt cool and slightly rough, like it had been handled by a few people already, sorted, stamped, approved, passed along a chain of strangers before it found me.
I didn’t open it in the hallway. The hallway has thin walls and nosy neighbors, and I couldn’t bear the idea of Mrs. Dunn from 3B popping her head out to ask if I’d finally “heard from that nice boy” she’d invented for me.
I tucked the envelope between my fingers and my palm like it was something breakable and climbed the stairs slower than usual. Inside, the apartment smelled faintly like cinnamon and the lemon cleaner I’d used on the counters that morning in anattempt to scrub away memories. The star ornament still hung in the window, spinning lazily when the radiator kicked on.
I shut the door, turned the lock, then the deadbolt, then checked both, because of course I did. Then I sat at my kitchen table, set the envelope down in front of me, and stared at it for a full minute.
It felt heavier than it should. Like it carried something more than ink. Like if I opened it and the words were cruel, or dismissive, or worse, indifferent, it would confirm some deep, gnawing suspicion I hadn’t had the courage to name yet.
That I cared more about what happened that night than he did. That I was just a blip in the wreckage of his life. Another incident. Another fight. Another mess.
“Just open it,” I whispered to myself. “You’re the one who started this.”
My fingers slid under the flap, careful not to rip too much. The glue gave with a soft sound. I unfolded the paper once, twice, heart thudding a little harder with each motion. And when I finally opened it, the words hit me like a quiet storm.
M,
I didn’t expect a letter.
Didn’t think I’d hear from you again, not after the way that night ended.
I’m glad you’re safe.
That’s all I ever cared about.
– J.W.
That was it. Four lines. No dramatic story. No apology. No expectations. No asking why I ran. No guilt pushed back on me, no bitterness. Just… truth. I read it once, eyes moving too fast,like I expected more to appear between the lines if I blinked. Then I read it again, slower this time. Then a third time, just to let each word soak into the cracks the night left behind.
I didn’t expect a letter. Neither did I, if I’m honest. Not when I first walked through my door after that night. Not when I sat on the floor with my back against the wood and my knees pulled up to my chest.
But then his name had lodged itself under my skin like a splinter, and the guilt had swelled around it, and the only way I’d been able to breathe was to write.
I’m glad you’re safe. That’s all I ever cared about.
I pressed the paper flat on the table and traced the edges with my fingers. It wasn’t what I thought he’d say. It was better. Because it meant he remembered. Not just some blurry impression of a woman in trouble, butme.The girl from the alley. The one who ran. The one who left him standing there with his fists bloody and his shoulders heaving.
And it meant he meant what he did that night. That it wasn’t just instinct or rage or whatever the court’s going to call it. He wanted me safe. That was the only thing that mattered to him.
Not glory.
Not thanks.
Not “winning” a fight.
Just… me getting home.
A ridiculous warmth bloomed in my chest, and my eyes stung, which annoyed me. Crying over four lines felt like overkill. But trauma doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and apparently neither does relief. I sat there with the letter in front of me, my tea going cold beside my elbow, and I realized something else:
He didn’t ask for anything.
No “tell me more.”
No “visit me.”
No “can you testify again?”
