Elena didn't remember falling asleep.
But she remembered waking up.
The room was dim, touched only by the early blush of dawn. A faint breeze stirred the curtains, and for a moment she forgot where she was—her heart thudding, her body tense.
Then she felt it.
Not a sound.
Not a movement.
Just… something.
A presence.
She turned slowly toward the window. It was still locked. Still shut. The note he'd left yesterday had been folded into the edge of her mirror, now pinned behind a corner of tape as if she couldn't bear to let it go.
She sat up in bed.
Her hand drifted to her belly. It wasn't a bump yet, not really, but there was weight there. Warmth. A quiet reminder of him.
And of the storm he carried into her life.
But this morning, she didn't feel fear.
She felt… the absence of fear.
Was this what it meant to miss someone you shouldn't?
Later that morning, she left the apartment.
A short walk to the nearby bookstore.
She wanted something—anything—that would distract her from her own spiraling thoughts.
The baby books were too clinical. The romance novels felt like mockery.
Then, on a low shelf near the back, she saw it.
"Letters Never Sent."
A blank journal with a deep blue velvet cover.
The kind made for words too fragile to say aloud.
Without thinking, she bought it.
That night, she began writing.
Not as herself.
But as someone who needed to say something.
She dated the top of the first page with shaking hands:
April 22nd.
Then she wrote:
Dear Luca,
I don't know if you still read what I write. Or listen when I talk to myself like an idiot in the middle of the night.
But if you do…
I want you to know I felt you.
I felt the food. The warmth. The care. The safety you tried to leave behind without making a sound.
I'm not okay, but I'm better than I was.
I wish I could say thank you. Properly. But I guess you already know that's not possible.
And still... you show up.
You never stopped.
Why do you care so much?
Why me?
She paused.
Then slowly added:
She's growing.
I don't even have to look to know it anymore. My body's changing, and I'm scared, Luca. I don't know how to do this.
But I think... I want her to have your strength.
Even if you're not here.
–E
She didn't tear the page out.
She didn't hide it.
She simply left the book on the windowsill, open, the ink still drying.
Then she turned off the light and went to bed.
Luca was already there.
Not inside.
But close.
Always close.
He saw the light switch off through the curtains. He knew her patterns now. Knew how long she tossed and turned before sleep found her. Knew how she curled her knees when she was scared, how she pressed her palm to her belly when she whispered to the baby.
But tonight, his breath caught in his throat when he saw it.
The notebook.
Open. On the windowsill.
He waited an hour after the last light faded.
Then climbed the fire escape.
Quiet as smoke.
He didn't open the window.
He didn't step inside.
He just leaned forward, forehead nearly brushing the glass.
And read the words she'd left behind.
His name.
Over and over again.
And her.
The baby.
His knees nearly gave out.
He stayed there, crouched in the cold, for a long time.
Then, with a trembling hand, he slid a single slip of paper beneath the notebook's cover.
Typed.
Simple.
You're not alone. And you never will be again.
The next morning, Elena found it.
She didn't scream.
She didn't cry.
She just pressed the paper to her chest and closed her eyes.
And whispered, "I believe you."
The hours passed in strange quiet.
Everything she did now was slower. Softer.
She ran her hand along the couch where he'd once sat. Brushed her fingers over the window frame. Listened to the silence between her steps.
She cooked that afternoon.
Just rice.
Simple.
She set two plates.
One for herself.
One left untouched.
And as the steam rose from the dish, she found herself talking again.
"I know you're out there," she said quietly. "I don't know what you're waiting for. But… I'm still here."
And for the first time in weeks—
The air shifted again.
She turned her head.
And for just one flicker of a second, she thought she saw something move in the mirror.
Not a person.
Just a shadow.
But enough to make her heart race.
"Luca?" she whispered.
But no answer came.
Only the soft, ghostly warmth of eyes that never stopped watching.
That night, Luca didn't return to the window.
He was down the street.
Sitting in his car. Hands gripping the steering wheel. Eyes fixed on the building where she lived.
He had to stay away.
Just a little longer.
Because the danger wasn't over.
He could feel it in the air.
But she had reached for him.
Spoken to him.
Written his name.
And now, his restraint cracked.
Piece by piece.
He reached into the glovebox and pulled out a photograph.
An ultrasound.
The one she had printed at the clinic.
He'd taken a copy.
Illegally.
Quietly.
He stared at it now, thumb brushing over the faint curve of a forming skull.
His daughter.
His chest burned.
He closed his eyes.
"I'm coming back, Elena," he whispered. "Just give me time. I'll fix this