It stays closed. Right away, that tells you something - waiting feels easier than facing what's inside.
Days pass before I touch it, even weeks, as though ignoring it could shift whatever waits within. For seventy-two hours, the letter rests on the countertop.
My path through the room bends around it, slow and careful, like it has teeth and knows how to use them. Coffee brewing, eyes elsewhere. Research pages open, that thing ignored completely. Phone rings once - Mom answers - but whatever's eating me stays locked up tight.
Message sent to Ella: still sealed, never touched. Her reply arrives fast: Open it. What he wrote matters.
I already know his words before seeing them. Since that June morning, I've written his message over and over inside my mind - shifting phrases, testing tones, picturing each version of why he stayed away.
