hapter Two
It rained for three days after I posted the letter.
Not a dramatic storm, not one that howled or flooded gutters—just a constant drizzle. A grey, bone-deep kind of rain that blurred the world and left a dampness in my soul I couldn't shake. Every morning I stood at the window, clutching my cup of tea like a lifeline, waiting for something to change. Nothing did.
Work became a lifeboat. I clung to my lectures, hiding behind syllabi and literary metaphors. I talked about Wordsworth's grief, Keats's longing, Austen's restraint. I dissected other people's pain so I wouldn't have to feel my own.
But the thing about heartbreak is that it finds you anyway. Even in the most well-structured lecture slides.
I'd chosen not to cry. Not because I wasn't hurt, but because crying felt like losing twice. I had already lost Liam. I would not lose myself too.
Still, the silence that followed the letter felt like standing in a vast, empty cathedral. Echoes of things I wished I'd said followed me around. Regret. Resentment. Restraint. All of it coiled tight around my chest.
Maisie texted every other day. She left voice notes. She sent photos of dress fittings, floral arrangements, menus. As if we were still sisters. As if the knife she'd plunged into my back had never twisted.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because every time I looked at her messages, all I could think was—you knew. You both knew. And you still chose each other.
My students were blissfully unaware. They thought my silence during office hours was exhaustion. That my flinching at love poems was some academic overanalysis. I let them believe it. I couldn't let the truth touch that part of my life too.
I started writing again. Not the letter kind—just notes to myself. Scribbles in the margins of books, lines of poetry that I couldn't shake, memories that surfaced in dreams. There was something therapeutic in pouring myself into paper. Maybe that's why I sent the letter in the first place. Maybe I wanted to bleed where someone might actually notice.
And someone did.
The reply came on a Saturday morning.
The post was late. The usual pile of bills and adverts sat limp on the mat. But on top—there it was. A cream envelope, heavy paper, foreign stamp.
I froze.
My hands trembled before I even picked it up. The envelope wasn't just paper—it was proof. Proof that someone had listened.
I opened it slowly, carefully, as if it might vanish. Inside was a single sheet of paper, hand-written.
> Dear You,
I read your letter twice. Once quickly, then again with more care. There are phrases I underlined, sentences I whispered aloud. I haven't done that in a long time.
You don't know me, but I know that ache. The ache of loving someone who is not yours to love. And I know what it is to lose them to someone you trust.
There's no neat way to package betrayal. It doesn't come with sharp corners or easy explanations.
But your words—they cut through. They reminded me why I teach. Why I read. Why I write.
You are not invisible.
I don't know your name. I won't ask for it. But if you write again, I'll read it.
With care,
A.M. Lark
I read it six times.
Each time slower. Each time a little more breathless. I couldn't believe it. He'd not only read it—he'd felt it.
His words didn't offer solutions. They didn't try to fix or soothe. They simply stood beside mine and held space.
And in that space, I breathed.
I carried the letter around my flat all day, unsure where to put it. On my desk? Too professional. On my nightstand? Too personal. Eventually, I tucked it inside a book—an old volume of Plath I hadn't opened in years. It felt right, somehow. Two kinds of pain sharing space.
The rain stopped that evening, and the sky cracked open with the softest gold. The streets sparkled. For the first time in days, I walked without headphones. I listened to the city breathe, and in it, I found a kind of stillness.
It wasn't healing. Not yet. But it was a start.
I lit a candle that night and sat at my desk again. The same desk where I'd written my first letter. The same chair that had held my heartbreak.
This time, I wrote not to scream—but to respond.
> Dear Stranger,
Thank you. Not for solving anything. Not for advice. Just… for reading. For seeing. For staying with my words long enough to understand them.
I didn't know how much I needed that until I had it.
I still don't sleep properly. My mind replays the same scenes on loop. The knock on the door. The ring. The way he avoided my eyes like I was the problem.
But I'm learning to breathe again. To exist in the quiet without crumbling.
I teach my students about words that last. Your letter was one of them.
—Me
I sealed the letter, addressed it again to Halston University, and posted it without hesitation.
Something had shifted. Not everything. But enough to begin again.
And sometimes, that's all you can ask for.