His brows furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t…I didn’t know there was a letter.”
Sydney laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy wallowing in your own pride to bother looking past the surface.”
“That’s not fair,” he said sharply, his voice rising for the first time. “You don’t know what it’s like to have someone betray your trust like that. To feel—”
“To feel humiliated?” Sydney interrupted, her tone biting. “To feel vulnerable? Fuck you, you’ve been humiliating that girl since she was thirteen years old and you were parading my cousin you were screwing in front of her face every single day. Do you know what that does to a person? Don’t you dare tell Yesoh she doesn’t know what it means to feel ashamed. Do you think Yesoh doesn’t know what that’s like? She knows, Wyn. She knows, and she’s been trying to make it right. But you won’t even give her the chance.”
The train rattled over the tracks, the noise filling the silence that followed her words. Wynter’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Sydney tried her best to play the tough girl for a moment—she thought that maybe Jax would be so proud, he always thought she was strong but he also always told her that being strong meant showing how you really felt, that took courage and she felt the tears building in her eyes.
“Shelovesyou, Wynter,” Sydney sniffled, her voice softer now but no less firm. “She’salwaysloved you. And yeah, she messed up. She hurt you. But do you think she’s without flaws? Do you think you are? If you can’t see how much she’s trying, then maybe you don’t deserve her at all.”
His head snapped back to her, his eyes wide with something that looked like disbelief—or maybe realization.
Sydney shook her head, her expression softening just slightly. “You’ve been blind, Wyn. Blind and stubborn. But it’s not too late. You can still fix this.”
The train screeched to a stop, the doors hissing open. Sydney glanced at the platform, then back at Wynter. “You know what you have to do,” she said, stepping back toward the doors. “Don’t waste any more time.”
Wynter stayed frozen in his seat as she stepped off the train, the garment bag swinging lightly at her side. The doors slid shut behind her, and the train lurched forward again, carrying him away.
Wynter sat in silence, the rhythmic clatter of the train drowning out the noise in his head. Sydney’s words echoed over and over, each one cutting deeper than the last.
Did you even flip to the last page?
She loves you, Wynter.
Maybe you don’t deserve her.
He had looked at the scrapbook, had flipped through the pages filled with photos and clippings, but he hadn’t finished it. He hadn’t turned to the last page.
The weight of that realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He thought he had seen everything she wanted him to see, but he’d missed the most important part.
A memory surfaced then, unbidden: Yesoh at fifteen, standing in the wings of the rink after one of his early competitions, her hands clasped tightly together as she watched him. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now, in the harsh fluorescent light of the subway car, the image burned in his mind. She’d been there. She’dalwaysbeen there.
The train rattled again, the noise pulling him back to the present. He stood abruptly, grabbing his bag and heading for thenearest door. He didn’t know where he was going—only that he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t sit still while the weight of his own blindness crushed him.
“Thank you, Sydney.” He bowed, and she nodded, wiping away her tears.
“When you retell this story, I didn’t cry, okay?” She cleared her throat, and he laughed, fluffing her hair. “I was brave and reasonable and composed.”
“Understood.”
He stepped off at the next station, the cold air biting at his face as he pushed through the crowd.
He needed to go back. He needed to read the letter.
And then, he needed to find her.
*****
The door to Wynter’s apartment closed with a quiet click, but the sound reverberated in his mind as if it were a gunshot. He tossed his duffel onto the couch, his North Face jacket following, but his feet didn’t stop moving until he was in his bedroom.
There it was, sitting on the edge of his desk where he’d left it weeks ago. The scrapbook.
The edges of the cover were worn, soft from years of handling. He remembered the night he’d opened it for the first time, flipping through pages of his life laid out with such care. He’d seen the photos, the clippings, the milestones—but it had been too much. Too raw. He hadn’t made it to the end.
But now, Sydney’s words echoed in his mind.
