Chapter: The Last Page

Letter from Olivia — "Thank You for Loving Me Even in Your Absence"

Tom,

Today I felt you closer than ever. I read your letter out loud, at our lookout point. The wind seemed to carry each word, as if you yourself were repeating them with me. And for the first time, I cried without being drowned by pain. It was a different kind of cry, a soft one... like a river that no longer fights the current.

I miss you. That won't change. There are still days when I wake up looking for you on the other side of the bed, and my chest aches when I remember you're no longer there. But there are also days like today, where I feel strong. Where your love doesn't weigh me down—it holds me up.

Thank you for your letters. For thinking of me even in your silences. Thank you for loving so deeply that even after you were gone, you're still taking care of me.

You asked if I would ever love again. I don't know yet. But knowing you gave me your blessing, that you freed me from the guilt that was consuming me, helps me breathe a little deeper. I promise not to shut myself off from the world. I promise to live.

Even with fear. Even with the emptiness of your laughter missing.

But to live.

Thank you for being my love, my home, and my refuge. I carry you in every part of me, Tom. But today, at last, I begin to let you go... without ever stopping loving you.

Always yours,
— Olivia

The notebook had been the invisible thread tying her to Tom. Each of his letters was a spark of life in the midst of grief, each word a gentle touch that saved her on her darkest days. But that afternoon, with the light of the sunset spilling through the window and a steaming cup of tea in her hands, Olivia knew the moment had come to write the end.

She took the black pen he had given her one Christmas—"so you can write what the soul doesn't dare to say," he had told her—and began to write carefully, unhurriedly, as if every letter sealed a part of her heart.

When she finished, she read the letter one last time. She smiled with tears in her eyes—that strange mix of nostalgia and relief. She closed the notebook slowly and held it against her chest.

She walked to the drawer where she kept everything that had been them: movie tickets, instant photos, a handwritten letter from him that still faintly smelled of his cologne. She placed the notebook on top of it all, like a promise fulfilled.

"Thank you for waiting for me until the end, Tom," she whispered. "This is where our written story ends, but not our love. That... stays with me."

She closed the drawer—not with sorrow, but with gratitude.

And as she left the room, for the first time, she didn't look back.