Chapter: The Forgotten Letter

It was Sunday. The kind of Sunday that feels suspended in time. The air was still, and everything seemed to move slower. I decided to clean a bit. Not because it was necessary, but because my mind needed order somewhere.

I started with the closet. I pulled out clothes I no longer wore, books covered in dust. When I opened the wooden box where I kept things I couldn't throw away, I saw it.

A folded envelope, wrinkled in the corner, almost invisible between old notebooks. It had my name written in his handwriting. Tom.

I froze.

For a moment, I thought about leaving it there. Closing everything again. But something inside me—something stronger than fear—told me I was ready.

I opened the envelope carefully, as if doing so could break something already broken. It was a letter, written in his own hand. I recognized it right away by the way he curved his Ls. The date was from several months before everything ended. I never knew why he hadn't given it to me.

"Love,"

"If you're reading this, it's because, somehow, time decided it was the right moment. I don't know when, or why, but I want you to know I'm writing this on one of those good days, the kind where we laughed endlessly over something silly and fell asleep wrapped in each other, unafraid of tomorrow."

"I just wanted you to know that if one day I'm no longer here, for whatever reason, I don't want my absence to be stronger than your presence. I don't want you to stop living because of me. I want you to love again, to laugh, to travel, to write, to find beauty even when you think there's none left. I want you to keep being you. Because you, Olivia, are the most beautiful thing I've seen in this life. Don't lock yourself in pain. Don't do that to me. Don't do that to yourself."

"I love you. Always. But more than that, I set you free."

I closed my eyes. The letter trembled in my hands.

I didn't cry right away. It was a strange mix of pain, relief, and something I couldn't name. As if something had been released inside me. As if he knew exactly what I needed to hear, right now, just as I was starting to come back to myself.

I lay down on the bed, the letter resting on my chest. And, for the first time, I felt I could love his memory without being trapped in it.

I was letting go. Not to forget him.

But to remember him without falling apart.