Chapter 11 – Selene's Third Letter
Selene waited until the apartment was still. Maren was asleep in the next room, her music faintly audible through the wall — something upbeat, careless, the kind of song Selene couldn't imagine dancing to.
Selene's desk lamp cast its familiar circle of light, and on the desk lay two objects: the folded photograph of her and Maren, and Adrian's second letter. She had placed them side by side as if daring herself to look at them together.
I will wait. If you choose to write, I will answer. Always.
She had read those lines so many times that they had begun to feel etched into her, like a carving under her skin. She had tried to resist, to tell herself not to lean on the words of someone she had never seen. But when the days pressed down too heavy, his promise replayed in her mind, quiet and steady.
The page before her remained blank, as if mocking her hesitation. She tapped the pen against her knuckles, heart racing with the strange fear that if she revealed too much, the connection would vanish.
After several minutes of stillness, she began.
Selene's Letter
(handwriting pressed harder this time, but steadier; a few pauses where ink blotted in small circles)
You said you've lived in silence. I understand that. My silence looks different from yours, but it feels the same. To everyone around me, I'm dependable. The one who doesn't fall apart. The one who smiles when people are watching. But inside, it's different. Inside, it feels like holding my breath for too long.
There's something I've never told anyone. I keep a photograph in my desk drawer. It's of me and my sister, from when she was small. I've carried it through everything, hidden it even from her. I look at it when I'm afraid I'll disappear. It reminds me I still belong somewhere, even if I don't always feel it.
I don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe because I believe you meant what you said — that you'll wait. Maybe because part of me wants to believe that words written in ink can hold the weight I can't say aloud.
You called yourself a stranger, but it doesn't feel that way. Not anymore.
When she reached the last sentence, Selene froze. She stared at it, heat rushing to her face as if she had confessed too much. She nearly scratched it out, nearly tore the page in half.
But her hand stilled.
For years, she had lived behind layers: dependable daughter, protective sister, quiet student. The page in front of her was the only place where those layers peeled back, even slightly.
She folded the paper with care, tracing the creases with her fingertip. When the envelope was sealed, she held it to her chest for a moment, listening to the faint hum of Maren's music through the wall.
Then she set the letter beside her keys. Not hidden. Not tucked away. Visible, waiting.
For the first time, the act of sending a piece of herself out into the world did not feel only like loss. It felt — faintly, impossibly — like being found.