Issa returned home the summer after her sophomore year, carrying less than she had before.
Not fewer bags—those were still heavy—but fewer questions. Fewer what ifs. The house smelled the same: detergent, warm dust, the faint sweetness of the jasmine outside her window. For a moment, it felt like slipping into an old sweater—familiar, comforting, no longer confining.
She unpacked slowly, deliberately.
The notebook went into her desk drawer.
Not hidden.
Not displayed.
Just placed.
She ran into Max on a Tuesday afternoon she hadn't planned.
The grocery store was nearly empty, the hum of refrigerators filling the silence. Issa was choosing between two boxes of cereal when she heard her name—careful, unsure.
"Issa?"
She turned.
Max stood a few feet away, older somehow. Less restless. More aware.
"Hey," she said.
They smiled at each other, the kind of smile reserved for people who once mattered deeply and still mattered differently.
"How've you been?" he asked.
"Good," she replied. "Really good."
He nodded, relief softening his face. "College suits you."
"So does… whatever this is," she said, gesturing vaguely. "Growing up, I guess."
He laughed quietly. "Yeah. That."
They talked in the aisle like time hadn't passed and like it had passed all at once. About school. About home. About nothing important and everything underneath it.
"I read something you wrote," Max said suddenly.
Issa stilled. "What?"
"The piece you shared online. About letters."
Her heart skipped—but didn't panic.
"You recognized it?" she asked.
"I recognized you," he said. "I always did. I just didn't understand what I was seeing."
There was no apology in his voice—only honesty.
"I hope you know," he continued, "that what you gave me mattered. Even if I didn't know how to hold it at the time."
Issa nodded. "I know."
And she did.
They walked out of the store together, sunlight spilling across the parking lot. For a moment, they stood beside their cars, the space between them comfortable.
"I'm glad you're happy," Max said.
"So am I," Issa replied.
She meant it—not as a reassurance for him, but as a truth for herself.
They hugged—warm, brief, uncomplicated.
When Issa drove away, she didn't look back.
That night, Issa sat on her bed and opened the notebook.
She didn't write a letter.
She read.
And as she turned the pages, she realized something quietly profound: the echo of loving Max was still there—but it no longer hurt.
It had softened into gratitude.
She closed the notebook and slid it back into the drawer.
Some echoes don't fade.
They just learn how to stop hurting.