Chapter 12 – Adrian's Third Reply
Adrian sat at the edge of his bed, Selene's envelope in his hands. The city outside pressed against his window — faint horns, the buzz of streetlights, the constant pulse that reminded him he was alive, though he often wondered why.
The letter had arrived two days ago. He had kept it unopened until tonight, not because he didn't want to read it but because he did. Too much. Sometimes wanting something felt like standing on a ledge: one wrong step, and you might lose everything.
Finally, he slit the envelope open and unfolded the page.
Her handwriting was darker this time, steadier, but still full of little hesitations that pulled at him. He read slowly, letting each word sink into him.
Her photograph. Her sister. Her admission that she carried a hidden anchor, something she showed no one else.
You called yourself a stranger, but it doesn't feel that way. Not anymore.
The words hit him like a blow. He set the page down, his chest tight, and leaned forward with his hands pressed to his forehead.
Not a stranger.
When was the last time anyone had said something that close to belonging? He couldn't remember.
He reached for a blank sheet of paper. His hand trembled as he began to write.
Adrian's Letter
(his handwriting is careful at first, then unravels into slanted strokes, as if the weight of memory pushed too fast for the pen to keep up)
You wrote about the photograph you keep hidden. I think I understand why. Sometimes one small thing holds more of us than all the words we say out loud. I don't have photographs anymore. Not of the people I've lost. I used to keep one — my best friend. But I couldn't look at it without hearing the sound of the phone call that told me he was gone.
He died in a plane crash. I wasn't there, but a part of me feels like I was. The night I found out, something in me shattered, and it's never been the same. Since then, silence has been the only way I knew how to live. Silence and distance.
But then your words arrived. You think you're invisible, but you're not. You've reached me, even here, even after I thought no one could. I don't say this easily. But I trust you with it, because you trusted me with your photograph.
Maybe strangers can carry each other's truths when they're too heavy to hold alone.
He stopped writing there, unable to continue. His hand hovered over the page, aching with everything he had not yet confessed — the nights of panic, the guilt that devoured him when he closed his eyes, the voice that whispered he should have been on that flight too.
But that was for later. Maybe.
He folded the page, his movements careful, reverent. As he sealed the envelope, he noticed the ink blotch near his friend's name where his hand had paused too long. He let it remain, a trace of the tremor he couldn't hide.
When he placed the letter by the door, ready for the morning mail, his chest felt both raw and lighter. For years he had carried silence like armor. Tonight, he had cracked it open, just enough for a stranger to see inside.