But she kept it. For ten years, she kept it. The paper is worn thin in places, the creases deep from being folded and unfolded again and again. She must have read it hundreds of times.
And underneath my letter?—
More envelopes. All with my name on them. All in her handwriting.
My breath catches.
I pull them out with trembling fingers. There are dates on each one. Some are thick, pages and pages. Others are thin, just a few lines. All of them sealed. All of them never sent.
The first is from ten years ago. Right after she would have gotten my letter.
Nate,
I got your letter. I’ve read it a hundred times. I don’t know how to respond because everything I want to say will make me come home, and I can’t come home. Not yet.
You didn’t do anything wrong. You have to believe that. This isn’t about you or Theo or Lucas. This is about me. I don’t know who I am outside of Honeyridge Falls. I don’t know who I am without the three of you telling me I’m enough.
I need to find out. I need to know I can stand on my own before I let myself fall into your arms again.
I love you. I love all of you. That’s why I have to stay away.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Cara
She never sent it.
My chest is so tight I can barely breathe. She wrote back. She wrote back that same month, and she loved me, and she was scared, and she never sent it.
I pull out the next one. Five years ago.
Nate,
I almost came home today. I had the plane ticket in my hand. I was going to surprise everyone at the Harvest Festival.
But then I thought about how long it’s been. Five years. How do I explain five years of silence? How do I look you in the eye and ask you to forgive me for disappearing?
You’ve probably moved on by now. You probably have someone else. Someone easier. Someone who doesn’t run.
I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me, I hope you’re happy.
I miss you so much it hurts to breathe.
Cara
Five years ago. She almost came home five years ago. She had a plane ticket. And she convinced herself I’d moved on, that I didn’t want her anymore, so she stayed away.
I never moved on. I never even tried.
There’s another from three years ago.
Nate,
I sold my first book today. It’s about a pack. An omega who runs away and three alphas who never stop loving her.
I wrote it about us.
I should tell you. I should call. But it’s been seven years now, and every year the silence gets heavier. How do you break seven years of nothing? What do you even say?
