“Goodnight, Knox.”
“Goodnight, Lina.”
I went upstairs and immediately looked under the bed.
The box was there, just where he said it would be. A simple wooden box, worn at the edges from frequent handling. I pulled it out and sat on the bed, lifting the lid.
Letters. So many letters. Some were just scraps of paper with a few sentences. Others were pages long, filled with cramped handwriting. They were dated, I noticed. Spanning five years.
I picked one up at random and started reading.
Lina,
I saw a woman with brown hair today and my heart stopped. For one second, I thought it was you. It wasn’t. It’s never you. You’re hundreds of miles away, living your life, probably hating me. And I deserve it. I deserve every moment of this hell I’ve created for myself.
I miss you so much I can’t breathe sometimes.
Knox
I picked up another.
Lina,
I dreamed about you last night. You were laughing, that full body laugh you do when something really amuses you. I woke up reaching for you. The bed was empty. It’s always empty.
I’m a fucking idiot.
Knox
Another.
Lina,
Today is the two-year anniversary of the worst mistake of my life. I’m drunk and I don’t care. I’ve written this letter four times already and thrown each version away because nothing I say is good enough. Nothing captures how sorry I am. How much I wish I could go back and shake some sense into myself.
You deserved better. You deserve everything.
Knox
I read letter after letter, tears streaming down my face. Some made me cry harder. Some made me laugh. Some were just a few words, desperate and raw. Others were long rambling confessions, Knox pouring out his heart onto paper.
He had loved me. Through all those years apart, he had loved me and missed me and wished he could take back what he’d done.
No wonder my past self had forgiven him.
It was around two in the morning when I finally set the letters aside, my eyes burning and my heart full. I needed water. My throat was dry from all the crying.
I crept downstairs, trying to be quiet, and nearly jumped out of my skin when I found Knox in the kitchen.
He was leaning against the counter, a glass of water in his hand, wearing nothing but sweatpants. His chest was bare, all that muscle on display, and his hair was messy and his eyes were tired.
“Can’t sleep,” he said.
“Me neither.” I moved past him to the cabinet, reaching for a glass. “I wanted water.”
He took the glass from my hand and filled it from the pitcher in the fridge, then handed it back to me. He was standing close. Too close. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
I took a sip of water and set the glass down, not moving away from him. Instead, I leaned in, letting my shoulder brush against his arm.
