I understand that both outcomes are survivable. And that might be the most important thing I’ve learned yet.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
ROSE
The envelope sits on the counter in the back room of the shop for a long time before I touch it.
It’s plain. No return address. My name written in Callum’s handwriting, neat, careful, like he was afraid of getting even that wrong. Lukas had come in just before my shift ended, lingering awkwardly by the till while I finished with a customer, his presence out of place among the shelves and gentle hum of the fridge units. When we were finally alone, he slid the envelope across the counter without a word.
“He asked me to give you this,” he’d said gently. “No pressure. Whenever you’re ready.”
Then he’d left, no lingering, no explanations, like he understood this wasn’t something anyone could soften for me.
Now it’s followed me home, sitting on my kitchen table like it has weight, like it knows what it carries. I circle it for nearly an hour, putting the kettle on, taking it off again, pretending to tidy while my eyes keep drifting back to my own name in his handwriting.
I know I don’t have to open it. But I also know I will.
I stand by the window and watch people move through the street below like they know exactly where they’re going. Anything to avoid opening the letter. I keep telling myself I don’t owe him this. That I could leave it unopened, let it sit until the paper yellows and the edges curl, proof that I protected myself.But the truth hums under my skin, restless and insistent. I want to know.
When I finally sit, I don’t rush it. I press my palm flat against the envelope first, grounding myself in the solidness of the table, the tranquillity of my flat, the fact that I’m safe here. That whatever this is, it can’t hurt me unless I let it. I slide my finger under the flap and open it.
The letter inside is folded once. No dramatic pauses. No preamble. Just truth, waiting.
Rose,
I am sorry I let you build trust on incomplete truth.
I am sorry I took away your choice.
I am sorry that my fear became your pain.
I’m not writing this to ask for anything.
I’m writing it because you deserve to hear the truth without pressure, without interruption, without me standing in front of you hoping for a certain reaction.
I caused the accident by running a red light. I didn’t hit your car, but I know that doesn’t make it better. I didn’t stop when I should have. I panicked, and I made the worst decision of my life.
I tracked you down the next day because I couldn’t live with not knowing if you were okay. I didn’t know you then. I didn’t expect anything from you. I just needed to face what I’d done.
I didn’t tell you sooner because I was afraid. Not of consequences, I’d already accepted those, but of losing the way you looked at me. And that fear cost me everything anyway.
I won’t tell you I loved you as an excuse. I won’t tell you I was confused or overwhelmed or protecting you. I wasn’t protecting you. I was protecting myself, and that was wrong.
If you never speak to me again, I’ll understand. If you do, I will answer anything you ask. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to. I won’t expect forgiveness. I won’t rush you.
I am proud of the man I’m trying to be now. I wish I had been him sooner.
Callum
The words hit harder than I expect. My throat tightens instantly, emotion flaring sharp and sudden. My chest aches, but not with shock, my heart thuds painfully against my ribs. I already know what happened now. I’ve read the headlines, the statements, the endless speculation. What’s different is the way he says it; no hedging, no justification.
There’s no signature flourish. No plea. No promise of forever. Just the truth, laid bare and trembling. I lower the letter slowly, my hands shaking. It hurts. God, it hurts in that deep, echoing way that lives somewhere behind my sternum, spreading outward until my whole body feels tender and exposed. Butbeneath the pain is something else, something steadier. This doesn’t feel manipulative. It doesn’t feel like damage control or a bid to pull me back in. It feels like accountability. And that terrifies me more than any lie ever could.
Because the truth I’ve been circling, the one I’ve refused to name, finally rises to the surface.
My deepest fear isn’t that Callum lied to me. It’s that I let myself be seen so completely. I trusted him with parts of myself I didn’t even know how to protect. I let him see my softness, my doubts, my hope. I stepped into his world knowing how sharp it could be, and I believed, truly believed, that I belonged there with him.
That kind of vulnerability isn’t something you bounce back from easily.
