My eyes were stinging so badly I could barely see.

The letters slipped from my hands one by one.

My cheeks were stained now. Silent tears, carefully ignored. The weight of it all was unbearable.

Not just the pages or the ink or the memories—but the realization that I had asked the universe for signs that he still cared, and they’d been sitting in a box this whole time.

I pressed a hand to my mouth, but it did little to muffle the sob that tore from my throat. My shoulders shook. My fingers clenched uselessly in the fabric of my jeans as I bent forward over my knees, my whole body curling in as if I could fold myself away from the weight of it all. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried like this. Maybe not since I left home.

The ache was too big for my body. Guilt. Regret. Love. Grief. All of it—all at once. He’d written every day. Every damn day. While I cried myself to sleep in a twin bed on the second floor of Aunt Mary’s house, convinced he didn’t care, he was writing. While I told myself I didn’t matter to him anymore, he was pouring out pages of his heart—quiet, constant hope tucked into crumpled envelopes I never knew existed.

Behind me, I heard Blake shift. “Hey… Hey, B—” His voice was so soft it nearly didn’t reach me. There was hesitation in it, a tremble, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to speak my name. “Beverly,” he said again, a little steadier this time, but still gentle. “Please don’t cry.”

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “I didn’t know,” I gasped. “I’m sorry,” I whispered into my hands. “Oh my God. Blake… I’m so sorry.”

A rustle of movement, and then his arms were around me.

Not tentative. Not cautious. He lifted me off the floor like he’d been waiting two years for the right to carry me again.

I didn’t resist. I couldn’t. I buried my face in his neck and sobbed harder. “I didn’t know,” I choked out over and over again. “I didn’t know about the letters, I would have⁠—”

“I know,” Blake murmured, his voice low and wrecked. “Shhh. It’s okay. B, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes, I do,” I said, clinging to him. “I thought you didn’t care. I left and got mad because you didn’t chase me harder, but all this time, you were writing me letters, thinking I hated you.”

My breath came out in uneven bursts. I buried my face in his shoulder, needing to be closer, needing to feel every second he hadn’t given up on me. “I should’ve called,” I said, breath hitching. “I should’ve asked. I should’ve⁠—”