Alia didn't sleep.
Not really.
She lay beside Micah, watching the light on the ceiling shift with every passing car. His hand stayed wrapped around hers like a quiet reminder: You're not alone. Not anymore.
But she still felt the ache in her chest—the tug-of-war between the life she'd run from and the one she'd built here.
She didn't want to leave Eastcliff.
But she also wasn't ready to let go of the girl who once believed her words could fill rooms in cities she'd never seen.
And now, she had to tell him.
---
Morning came quietly.
Micah made coffee, humming something tuneless as he buttered toast. The kind of morning rhythm that felt like marriage, though no vows had ever been spoken.
Alia sat on the floor near the attic bookshelf, legs pulled to her chest, holding the letter.
He noticed it before she spoke.
Micah paused, brow furrowed. "That from New York?"
She blinked. "How did you know?"
He poured coffee into her favorite mug. "It smelled like change."
She gave a weak laugh. "You always say stuff like that and I never know if you're being poetic or psychic."
"Little of both."
He sat across from her, quiet now.
"You got accepted?"
She nodded. "They want me to come out for a reading. Possibly… stay for a while. To workshop, to promote the book. If they go through with publishing it."
Micah nodded slowly, as if absorbing every word like a page he wasn't ready to turn.
"I didn't want to hide it," Alia said softly. "But I didn't want to say it before I understood how it made me feel."
"And now?" he asked.
"I feel…" She looked away. "Split down the middle."
---
There was a long silence.
Micah leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"I never wanted to be the reason you didn't chase something," he said. "And I definitely don't want to be the thing that makes you smaller."
"You don't make me smaller," she said quickly. "You remind me of the kind of writing that matters. The kind that breathes instead of performing. I just—" She swallowed. "I don't know how to walk away from this. From you."
"You're not walking away," he said gently. "You'd just be walking toward something else. And I think… I think you might need to."
Her throat tightened.
"You're okay with that?"
"No," he admitted. "But I'll never ask you to shrink yourself to stay."
---
Later that day
They worked side by side in the shop. Unspoken tension lingered like humidity before a storm. But it wasn't anger. Just grief. Premature, maybe. But real.
At closing, Micah handed her a sealed envelope.
"For when you go," he said.
"What is it?"
He smiled faintly. "A letter. I figured if we started with them, we should use one when you leave—even if it's just for a while."
Alia held the envelope gently. "Do I open it now?"
"No. You open it on the train. Or in your hotel. When you're scared. Or lonely. Or wondering if any of this was real."
Her voice trembled. "Was it?"
He brushed his knuckles down her cheek.
"It still is."
---
That night
There were no new letters in the typewriter.
Only Alia's hand-written note, taped to the carriage arm:
> "I don't know if I'm running again, or reaching.
But this time, I hope you'll be waiting
when I circle back."
Micah found it just before bed.
He didn't cry.
But he didn't sleep, either.