Chapter Three
I stared at the letter from Dr. Lark for what felt like hours. Every word echoed through the hollowed spaces inside me—the places that used to hold Liam, used to hold certainty.
It was a curious feeling, being understood by a stranger.
Not pitied. Not patronised. Understood.
I hadn't expected an answer. Let alone one so measured, so careful, like he'd reached into my chest and gently rearranged the broken bits.
That morning, instead of boiling water for tea, I made black coffee. I opened the windows, let the rain-chilled air slap me awake, and sat at my desk with a fresh sheet of paper.
I picked up my pen.
And I wrote back.
> Dear Stranger,
I didn't think you'd write. That you did… I don't have the right words for what that means. So instead, I'll offer more honesty. It's the only currency I seem to have left.
My life is quieter now. I don't mean peaceful—I mean silence. The kind that sits in the corners of the flat and watches me. It watches when I pour cereal for two and remember I only eat half. It watches when I hear a laugh that sounds like his and my whole body forgets he belongs to someone else now.
I don't know what to do with the pieces of myself I saved for him.
And as for her—Maisie—it's not rage. It's worse. It's nothing. It's this cold detachment, like I'm staring at her through glass. She calls. She texts. She sends flowers. I let them wilt at the door.
I teach about love. I teach about longing and prose and the beautiful ache of poetry.
But I couldn't recognise betrayal until it wore the faces I trusted most.
Thank you for writing back.
I don't know your face. I don't need to. But your words felt like shelter.
—Me
I folded the letter carefully. No smudges. No tears.
Then I slipped it into an envelope addressed only to "Halston University, Department of Creative Writing, California."
I didn't know if he'd reply again. That wasn't the point.
Writing to him felt like therapy without the awkward couch and overpriced sessions. Like leaving pieces of my grief in someone else's care so it wouldn't all live in my chest at once.
That night, I walked to the same postbox on Albion Street, just past the bakery. I dropped the letter through the slot and stood there longer than I should have, listening to the quiet thunk as it fell.
Somewhere across the world, he was reading my words.
And that meant I wasn't completely alone.
Back in my flat, I lit a candle, one of the posh ones I'd been saving for company I no longer had. I poured myself a glass of red wine, curled up on the couch, and opened a collection of essays he'd written years ago—ones I used to assign to my students.
It felt different now.
Like I wasn't reading theory. Like I was reading pieces of the man behind the letter.
And for the first time since the engagement announcement, I didn't feel the urge to cry.
Just the quiet hum of something shifting.
Something beginning to Blum
Work became a performance. A careful, timed recital of syllabi and smiles. My colleagues noticed I was more clipped, more tired, but none of them asked. I was grateful.
Avoidance had become second nature. I dodged family dinners, muted group chats, and ignored the endless stream of wedding updates Maisie tried to share. Apparently, my silence wasn't hint enough. She still wanted me to be involved—as if she'd only stolen a pen and not the manuscript.
I started taking the long way home. Past streets I hadn't walked in years. Past the football pitch where Liam once fell and I ran with a plaster like I was saving his life. Past the spot behind the library where we'd carved our initials into a bench with a blunt key.
He never stopped being everywhere.
But lately, he didn't come with the same sting. I'd trained myself not to linger in the pain too long. Maybe it was the letters. Or maybe it was because I'd slowly stopped begging myself to forget.
The second letter from Dr. Lark arrived exactly nine days after I sent mine.
This time, it came with a postcard tucked inside. A photo of a lone, snow-covered tree standing tall against a white sky. On the back, his reply.
> Dear You,
Your letter was quiet and loud at the same time. It said everything you meant and left space for what you couldn't say.
I don't think you need to explain yourself to me. Or to anyone. Survival looks different on everyone.
But I do wonder—what would you write if no one were listening? If you knew the letter would never be read?
Would it still feel like truth?
There's power in speaking for yourself. Even anonymously.
You have a voice that wraps around grief without choking it. That's rare.
I'm still reading.
Yours,
A.M. Lark
I held that postcard like it might dissolve. The paper was thick, textured. The words were deliberate. There was no sympathy—only presence. And sometimes, that was enough.
I placed it on my bookshelf, next to the first letter.
Not hidden.
Visible.
A reminder that somewhere in the world, someone was listening when I whispered the worst parts of myself.
And they didn't flinch.
That night, I slept with the window slightly open. London was unusually quiet. For once, the silence wasn't suffocating.
The next morning, I brewed coffee and sat at my desk without an agenda. I didn't know what I wanted to say, but the blank page didn't frighten me the way it used to.
Instead of writing to Dr. Lark, I wrote to myself. I wrote about the things I missed—the way Liam used to sing off-key when he cooked, the way Maisie curled her toes when she laughed too hard, the stupid traditions we created on rainy Sundays.
I wrote until my hand cramped. I cried once. Not the dramatic sobbing kind—just quiet tears that slipped out and didn't ask permission.
Later that evening, I wrote another letter. A real one.
> Dear Stranger,
I've started thinking about memory as a living thing. It changes. It evolves. Sometimes it lies.
Today, I remembered Liam in the rain—soaked through, laughing, handing me a daisy that had lost most of its petals. He said, "Still beautiful, though," and I thought he meant me.
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't.
That's the trouble with memories. They're ours, but they don't always obey us.
Your question stayed with me—what would I write if no one were listening?
I think I'd still write to you.
Even if I believed you'd never reply.
Because your voice echoes differently in my head than anyone else's. It doesn't try to fix me. It just listens.
And that's more than anyone else has done in a long time.
—Me
I walked the letter to the postbox under a sky full of stars. No coat. No umbrella. Just my heartbeat, steady now.
Maybe the worst was over. Maybe not.
But something had begun.
Something real.