The sky was the color of old bruises, purple, swollen, and silent. Rain clung to the edges of gravestones like it was afraid to fall too hard. Kian stood beside a hole in the earth, fists buried in the pockets of his too-small black suit, while strangers whispered and wiped at tears they didn't earn.
He hadn't cried.
Not when Emilia's name was carved into cold stone. Not when her mother clutched a folded photo of the two of them from Year Six camp. Not even when the coffin sank slowly into the ground like a secret being buried.
He felt… nothing. Which somehow felt worse.
They said she had died "peacefully." Leukemia. Apparently, she'd known for months.
He hadn't.
When the last umbrella disappeared and only damp silence remained, her mother approached him. Her eyes were glassy, as if they'd already cracked days ago.
"Kian," she said softly, voice barely above the hush of rain. "She wanted you to have this."
She handed him a shoebox. Worn. The lid dented. A pink ribbon, faded from sun and time, barely held it closed. He took it with both hands, confused. Her mother didn't explain.
"She kept them under her bed," she added. "All addressed to you."
Before he could ask anything else, she turned and walked away.
******************************************************
That night, Kian sat on the floor of his bedroom, legs crossed like a child again, the box resting in front of him. His fingers trembled as he untied the ribbon. Inside were dozens of envelopes. Some crisp. Others crumpled, tear-stained. Each one dated. Each one bearing his name.
The one on top was marked:
"For the boy I never had the courage to love."
He opened it slowly.
Dear Kian,
If you're reading this, then I guess I'm already gone. That's a weird thing to say, isn't it? "Gone." Like I just wandered off somewhere and might be back later. I wish that were true.
I wasn't brave enough to tell you how I felt while I was still here. Not because you wouldn't have listened, you always listened. But because I couldn't bear to watch you try to love me out of guilt.
So I'm writing you letters instead. I don't know how many. Maybe one for each version of me I never got to be. Maybe one for each memory I can't let go of.
This one… this one is for the version of me that never sat beside you under a sky full of stars and whispered, "I love you," like it wasn't the end of the world.
This one's for the girl who loved you quietly.
Desperately.
And in secret.
Always,
Emilia
Kian didn't realize he was crying until the ink on the letter started to blur, until his throat tightened and the sound that tore out of him didn't feel like it belonged to any living person.
He thought back to a memory.
Year Three. He had two cookies in his lunchbox and gave her one because hers got squashed in her bag. She'd smiled at him like he'd given her the moon. She had crumbs on her chin. He remembered laughing. It was the first time anyone had looked at him like that.
And the last time he remembered feeling weightless. Now, the weight was unbearable. He picked up the next letter. And read.