Summer's POV
The sea was calm that morning.
The kind of calm that made sound feel unnecessary.
They were halfway back to the mainland when Ethan suggested it.
"Let's each write something," he said, "to who we were back then."
She smiled faintly. "A letter?"
"Yeah. To the people we left behind on that island. The versions of us who didn't know we'd make it out."
The idea sat between them for a while.
Then she reached for her notebook.
Her handwriting came slowly—careful, like the words might break if she rushed.
---
Dear Me,
You don't know this yet,
but you're stronger than the silence.
You think being seen means being safe,
but someday you'll learn that real safety
comes from being known.
You'll spend months trying to fix how the world perceives you.
Then you'll realize you don't need fixing.
You'll stop apologizing for being tired,
and you'll start saying no to the noise.
You'll meet someone who challenges you in all the right ways—
someone who argues, listens, stays.
He won't save you,
but he'll remind you that you never needed saving to begin with.
You'll find home,
not on this island,
but in the quiet you carry with you.
And one day, you'll come back here—
not as a contestant,
not as a headline,
but as yourself.
Keep going.
You're almost there.
—Summer
---
She reread it once, then closed the notebook gently. The ache that followed wasn't sadness exactly—it was recognition.
Ethan had finished writing too. He looked at her, then down at the page in his hands. "Do we read them out loud?" he asked.
"Only if we want to," she said.
He nodded, thoughtful. "Then I want to."
---
Ethan's POV
He hadn't written a real letter in years.
There was something disarming about handwriting—
no delete button, no filters, no control.
He started with hesitation, then let the words find him.
---
Dear Me,
You're not as lost as you think.
You confuse being strong with being loud,
and you keep trying to prove your worth
to people who already stopped listening.
But soon, you'll stop performing pain
and start learning peace.
You'll lose things—
jobs, comfort, the illusion of certainty.
You'll think that's failure.
It's not.
It's clearing space.
You'll meet someone who sees through all the noise,
and instead of asking you to be better,
she'll ask you to be honest.
That's harder.
But it's the thing that lasts.
You'll go back to the island one day,
not to prove anything,
but to thank it for making you fall apart
just enough to rebuild right.
When you get there,
stand by the shore.
Listen to the waves.
You'll realize they've been saying the same thing all along:
"You're still here."
And that's enough.
—Ethan
---
He finished reading and folded the page.
Summer was quiet, looking out over the water.
"That's beautiful," she said softly.
He smiled. "It's true."
They sat in silence for a moment—
no cameras, no plans, just the gentle rhythm of the boat against the sea.
---
Summer's POV
"Do you think," she asked after a while, "that we were supposed to come back?"
He glanced at her. "You mean fate?"
"Maybe not fate. Just… the right kind of circle."
He nodded. "Yeah. Maybe some stories only make sense when you return."
She smiled at that. The words felt right.
Then she opened her notebook again, tearing out both pages carefully. "Let's put them in the documentary credits," she said. "End it with the letters."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "The real letters?"
"Yes," she said. "The unedited kind. Not the ones people expect. Just us."
He thought about it, then grinned. "That's perfect."
They sealed the pages in a small envelope, labeled it simply:
"Letters to the Island."
---
Ethan's POV
The sun began to rise higher, casting gold over the waves.
He looked at Summer—hair caught in the wind, eyes half-lost in thought—and realized something simple but absolute.
They weren't returning to who they used to be.
They were finally leaving them behind,
grateful, but ready.
When the boat reached the pier, he helped her ashore. She turned back once, gazing at the fading island in the distance.
"Goodbye," she whispered, not sadly.
He echoed softly, "Thank you."
And as they walked away,
he thought that maybe closure wasn't about ending things—
it was about understanding them.