The night was still when Brandy returned home.
The streets had grown hushed, the moon hanging pale and watchful above the rooftops. His apartment greeted him with silence, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock.
But inside him, there was no quiet. His chest still burned from the sight of April's tears, his hands still tingled from the memory of her touch across that café table.
He dropped his keys onto the counter, shrugging off his jacket with a heaviness that went deeper than bone. For a long moment, he stood in the middle of the room, uncertain of what to do with the storm raging inside him.
Sleep was out of the question.
Instead, Brandy found himself drawn to his desk. He sat heavily, pulling a blank sheet of paper toward him. His fingers hovered above it, hesitant. He hadn't written anything down in months—everything he wanted to say always came out clumsy, raw, or left unspoken.
But now, after seeing April again, the words pressed against him like a dam about to burst.
With a shaky breath, he picked up a pen.
And then he began.
April,
I don't know if you'll ever read this. I don't even know if I'll ever have the courage to give it to you. But tonight, I can't hold this inside me anymore. If I don't put it down, I think it might tear me apart.
Seeing you today… it felt like coming home and being struck by lightning all at once. I didn't know how much I missed the sound of your voice until I heard it again. I didn't know how starved I was for your eyes until they found mine. And I didn't know how broken I still am until I saw your tears and realized I was the one who caused them.
April, I'm sorry. God, I am so sorry. I've replayed our fight in my head a thousand times, every word, every silence, every look. I thought I was protecting myself, maybe even protecting you, but all I did was hurt the one person I never wanted to hurt. If I could take it all back, I would. But life doesn't let us rewrite the things we regret most.
Do you remember the river? That night under the stars when I told you I loved you? I meant every word. I still mean it. I will always mean it. You laughed at me when I stumbled through it, when I tried to make the words sound poetic. But the truth is, love isn't poetry—it's raw and messy and terrifying. And it's you. It's always been you.
I know you're afraid. Afraid of losing yourself. Afraid of what choosing me might cost you. And maybe I haven't done enough to show you that I don't want to take your dreams away—I want to stand beside them, even if it scares me. I want to be the one cheering you on, not the one holding you back. But I didn't know how to say that. Instead, I let my fear of losing you turn into anger, and I pushed you further away.
You once told me that love should feel like home. And when you said it, I thought it sounded simple. But now I realize homes aren't always easy. They need care, they need patience. Sometimes they fall into disrepair and need rebuilding. But you don't abandon them. You fight for them, because where else can you belong? April, you're my home. Even when you're far, even when you're angry, even when I don't deserve it—you are still where my heart belongs.
If you go, I'll understand. I'll tell myself it's because you deserve a life I couldn't give you. But know this—I'll miss you with every breath, with every song I hear, with every sunrise I wake to alone. And I'll keep loving you, even in silence. Because love doesn't end when people say goodbye. It lingers. It carves itself into your soul and refuses to leave.
So if these words never reach you, if this letter stays hidden in the drawer of a desk you'll never see—at least I'll know I told the truth somewhere. At least I'll know I didn't keep it all locked inside.
I love you, April. Always.
—Brandy
When Brandy finished, his hands were trembling. The ink had smudged in places where his fingers pressed too hard, the letters uneven and raw.
He stared at the paper, his chest tight, his throat burning.
It was everything he wanted to say. Everything he couldn't.
With a sigh that rattled through him, he folded the page carefully and slid it into an envelope. His name wasn't on it. Neither was hers. Just a blank white cover that looked as fragile as the words inside.
He set it in the top drawer of his desk, shutting it gently as though sealing away a piece of his heart.
Brandy leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The weight in his chest hadn't lifted—if anything, it pressed heavier now—but it was a different kind of weight. Not one of silence, but of truth.
And though he had no intention of giving April the letter, part of him prayed that fate, cruel and unpredictable as it was, might one day find a way to put it in her hands.
Until then, the words would wait.
Just like he would.
The city was hushed beneath the weight of midnight, but Brandy's apartment was restless. His chest still burned from the encounter with April—the flash of her tears across the café table, the tremor in her voice when she whispered his name as though it might shatter.
Sleep was impossible. He sat at his desk, hunched over a blank sheet of paper, the silence of the room heavy enough to crush him. For weeks, words had lived inside him like a storm, swelling, straining, desperate for escape. Now, with the pen trembling in his hand, he let them pour.
He wrote of their first walk in the rain, of her laughter at the river, of the night under the stars when he told her he loved her. He wrote of his fear—how he had mistaken protecting himself for protecting her. He wrote of her being his home. He wrote of how, even if they broke apart completely, even if she walked away, he would still love her.
When the last words bled onto the page, he folded it with careful hands, sealing it in an envelope without name or address. He tucked it into the top drawer of his desk and sat back, exhaling.
For the first time in weeks, he felt like he had told the truth.
He never intended for her to read it.
The Unexpected Visit
The next afternoon, April found herself outside Brandy's building without meaning to. Her feet had carried her there, step by hesitant step, while her heart urged her to turn back. She hadn't planned to see him again so soon—not after the way her chest still ached from their last meeting—but something stronger than caution had drawn her here.
The door to his apartment was ajar, as though he had left in a rush.
She knocked softly. "Brandy?"
Silence answered.
Against her better judgment, April stepped inside. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee and cedar wood, familiar scents that stirred something deep in her chest. Everything was neat, though not untouched—his jacket draped over the back of a chair, a half-drunk cup of coffee cooling on the counter.
She told herself she'd only stay a moment. Just long enough to reassure herself that he was alright.
But then her gaze fell to the desk.
The drawer was slightly open, a slip of white catching her eye.
April hesitated. She wasn't the kind of person who rifled through others' things. But something about the envelope—the careful crease of the fold, the way it seemed to call out to her—made her reach for it.
Her hands shook as she slid the letter free.
Reading the Words
At first, she only intended to glance. To see if it was something unimportant, a bill or a note.
But her eyes caught the first line.
April, I don't know if you'll ever read this…
Her breath caught.
She sank into the chair at the desk, her heart hammering in her ears, and began to read.
With each line, the walls she had built around her heart cracked. His apology, his confession of fear, his memory of the river, his reminder that she was his home—it spilled over her like a tide, overwhelming, unstoppable.
By the time she reached the end, tears blurred the ink.
I love you, April. Always.
The paper trembled in her hands as she pressed it to her chest. The letter wasn't just words—it was Brandy, raw and unguarded, everything he had never said aloud but had carried in silence.
And in that moment, April knew: he hadn't stopped loving her. Not for a second.
Brandy Returns
The sound of the door opening jolted her from her reverie.
"April?"
Brandy's voice was hoarse with disbelief. He stood frozen in the doorway, grocery bag hanging forgotten at his side, his eyes locked on her—on the envelope clutched against her heart.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then April rose slowly, the letter still in her hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to… I found it. I couldn't stop myself."
Brandy's face drained of color. He set the bag down with shaking hands, running a palm across his mouth. "That wasn't—April, you weren't supposed to see that."
Her tears glistened in the dim light. "Why not?" she asked softly. "Why hide this from me?"
He shook his head, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. "Because it's everything I feel, and I was afraid… afraid it would scare you away. Afraid you'd think it was too much."
April crossed the room, closing the space between them with trembling steps. "Brandy," she whispered, holding the letter out as though offering him back his own heart. "Do you know what this means to me? To know you still love me, even after everything?"
His eyes glistened. "I didn't want to burden you with it."
"You could never be a burden," she said, her voice breaking.
For the first time in weeks, their eyes met without defenses, without anger—only truth. The letter had said what their lips could not.
The Weight of Words
Brandy reached for her hand, his fingers hesitant but yearning. "I meant every word, April. Every single one. But I don't know if it's enough. I don't know if love can fix what we broke."
April shook her head, tears slipping free. "Love isn't about fixing, Brandy. It's about carrying. About holding the weight together, even when it's heavy."
He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing against her knuckles. "And if we break again?"
"Then we learn to rebuild," she whispered. "Because I'd rather break with you than be whole without you."
The silence that followed was not empty. It was thick with unspoken promises, fragile but alive.
The Embrace
At last, Brandy pulled her into his arms. April sank against him, her cheek pressed to his chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady and real.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The letter lay forgotten on the desk, but its truth lingered between them, a bridge over the silence.
April closed her eyes, breathing him in. She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, whether fear and doubt would rise again, whether they were strong enough to overcome what lay ahead.
But in that moment, wrapped in his embrace, she knew one thing for certain: she still loved him.
And he still loved her.
The words he had never meant her to read had given her the answer she needed.