The morning sunlight crept through the curtains like it was afraid to touch me. I hadn't really slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw headlights fading into the distance and heard the crunch of gravel under my shoes when I stood there, alone, on that road.
Aunt Mira knocked gently. "You'll be late for school, sweetheart."
"I'm not going today," I said. My voice cracked, small and tired. "I don't feel well."
She hesitated outside my door. "All right. Rest. I'll leave some tea on the table."
The door clicked shut, and silence flooded the room. That was when the tears came again—slow, quiet ones that I couldn't hold back anymore.
It wasn't just what he'd done. It was how cold it had felt. Like I had never mattered at all.
I sat on my bed and pulled open the drawer of my small desk. Inside, tucked between notebooks and folded papers, was an old box. My heart stuttered as I opened it.
Letters.
So many of them—neatly folded, never sent.
They smelled faintly of lavender and ink, like the summer afternoons I used to write them in. Each one started the same way.
Dear Aiden,
I had written to him after he left town, when we were still just kids. I told him about the rain, about the way the stars looked lonelier without him. I told him about my aunt's garden, about school, about how I missed the sound of his laughter.
But he never answered.
Maybe he never got them.Maybe he didn't care to.
I picked one up, the edges soft from how many times I'd unfolded it.
Dear Aiden,Today the sky looked like the one we saw that night by the river. Do you still remember it? I hope you do. I hope you still remember me.
My chest ached. I put it down and reached for another.
Dear Aiden,You said you'd write back. You didn't. But I still wait for the post every morning. Maybe I'm foolish, but I like believing in maybes.
And then the one I never finished:
Dear Aiden,I think I understand now. Some people outgrow the places they came from—and the people too.
I stopped reading. My fingers trembled, and I felt the familiar sting of tears again. But this time, instead of letting them fall, I forced myself to breathe.
Because maybe it was time to stop writing letters to someone who'd stopped listening.
I looked at the stack of unsent pages and whispered, "I stopped sending you letters when you smiled for someone else."
The words felt final now, like a truth I'd carried too long.
I folded the letters back into the box and tied it shut with a thin piece of string. Then I opened my window and placed the box on the sill. The morning wind tugged at the papers, and for a moment, I almost let it take them.
But I didn't.Not yet.
Someday, maybe.But not today.
At school, the whispers started as soon as I walked through the gate.
"Did you hear? Aiden drove off and left her.""No way, seriously?""She's still pretending to be fine."
I ignored them. The laughter around me sounded far away, like echoes from another world. I kept my head down, walked to class, and took the seat by the window—the one where the light always fell across my desk.
When Aiden walked in, the room went still.
He didn't look at me. Not once.
His hair was tousled, his uniform perfect as always, his expression unreadable. You'd never guess what he'd done.
I told myself not to care.But my heart still flinched.
Halfway through class, I found myself staring at him, memorizing the way the sunlight touched his face, the way he tilted his head slightly when concentrating. It hurt, because I still loved the version of him that smiled.
That version didn't exist anymore.
When the bell rang, he stood, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked past me without a word. The air seemed to follow him out, leaving me breathless.
I waited until the hallway emptied before I opened my diary again.
You don't owe me kindness. You don't owe me love. But I wish you hadn't forgotten how to look at me like I was someone you once knew.
I wrote until my hand hurt, until the words blurred.
And then, for the first time, I closed the diary and didn't hide it away. I left it on my desk in plain sight—because I didn't care anymore if anyone saw my heart written out in ink.
That night, Aunt Mira found me sitting on the porch steps, staring at the streetlights.
"Elara," she said softly, sitting beside me. "You've been quiet lately."
"I'm just tired," I whispered.
She placed a gentle hand over mine. "He'll grow up someday and regret the way he treated you. But you can't wait for that day. You have your own to live."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I believed her. The city hummed quietly around us, and for a moment, I wondered if Aiden was somewhere out there under the same stars—thinking about me.
Probably not.But maybe that was okay.
I stood up, went to my room, and looked again at the box of letters. This time, I opened the window wide and let the wind take one. Just one.
It fluttered away like a small white bird, disappearing into the night sky.
And for the first time, I didn't feel like chasing after it.