I swallowed hard, trying to fight back the knot in my throat that tightened with every mile we drove. “I left because I was trying to heal,” I croaked, my eyes brimming with unshed tears. “But I was running from the one thing I needed most.”

“I know,” he murmured, reaching across the console for my hand. His fingers wrapped around mine with a steadiness I hadn’t felt in a long time. “And I was trying not to bleed on you anymore. That’s why I left. I left because I love you.”

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My heart was still in my throat, my mind flipping through every conversation I’d had with Tiffany, every moment she could’ve mention letters and didn’t.

We drove the rest of the way in silence—thick, painful silence—full of everything we’d said and everything we hadn’t.

I wanted to scream, to ask how he could love me and still think I couldn’t handle whatever it was he was carrying.

We didn’t speak until we crossed the city line. And even then, I wasn’t ready to look at him. My brain was a mess of memories, unanswered letters and a pink hair tie looped around his wrist. Part of me wanted to forgive him right there in the quiet hum of the Impala. But forgiveness didn’t come easy when the wound still ached. When the letters never came. When the silence felt like abandonment—even if I had been the one to keep him away.

That was the worst part.

I’d made it impossible for him to find me, and then I’d hated him for not trying harder. For not sending smoke signals into the sky. It was petty, selfish even. But heartbreak doesn’t always make room for logic. Even now, with his hand wrapped around mine, part of me was still that girl crying into a pillow at Aunt Mary’s. Still that girl staring at her phone at 2 a.m., wondering why he hadn’t fought for us. Still that girl who believed that maybe I wasn’t worth chasing.

But another part of me, the part that never stopped loving him, wanted to climb into his lap and tell him I didn’t care anymore. That I just wanted him. That I was tired of hurting.

The war between those two girls was exhausting.

It was too much. Too much for my heart to handle, too much for my mind to sort through in the space of a few breaths.

“I would have read them,” I said finally, the words slipping out in a whisper. “If I’d known there were letters… I would’ve read every single one.”