Episode 11
1414 Words
THE LETTER, THE LIE AND THE LOOK THAT LINGERED
The letter shouldn’t have been there.
Eloise found it tucked inside a dusty first-edition of Wuthering Heights—the very same copy she’d used as a prop for last week’s writing workshop. She wasn’t even looking for it. Just rearranging a few books for the display table when a yellowed envelope, creased with time and sealed with wax long broken, slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
Her name was scrawled on the front in Rowan’s handwriting. Not the clean, neat version he used now, but the slanted, impulsive script he had used ten years ago, when love notes were slipped into notebooks and words meant everything.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up.
The bookstore was quiet. Rowan had stepped out to run errands. The only sound was the faint hum of the overhead lights and the steady pounding of her own heartbeat.
She sat down on the edge of the reading nook couch and stared at the envelope. Her fingers hovered over the edge, hesitating.
Did she want to read it?
No. And yes. Desperately.
She opened it.
The letter was dated June 15th—ten years ago, a week after their blowout fight, and five days before she’d left college without a goodbye.
> Eloise—
I’ve rewritten this letter five times. Nothing I say seems big enough to explain what happened. But I need to try.
I didn’t kiss her. I didn’t choose her. You have to believe that.
That night—when you walked into the library and saw me with Sam—I swear to you, she kissed me. I pushed her away. I told her no. I told her I loved you.
But the damage was already done. You left, and I couldn’t find you. I tried. God, I tried. Your number was disconnected. You blocked me on everything. I even asked around your classes, but no one knew where you’d gone.
I know it looks bad. But I need you to believe I never stopped loving you. I still don’t. Please, if you read this, come find me. Or just write back. Anything.
I’ll wait.
—R.
Eloise reread the letter three times before folding it with aching slowness.
She remembered that night. The sharp, burning pain. The way Sam had grabbed Rowan’s arm, the way he’d looked so stunned and then... guilty. She had assumed the worst. Had believed the worst.
Because Sam had told her the story in vivid, cruel detail—how Rowan had been flirting with her for months. How he hadn’t even fought the kiss. How he’d said Eloise was too “intense,” too “needy.”
And Eloise had believed it.
Because at the time, she needed to. Believing that Rowan had betrayed her was easier than believing she had lost him over a misunderstanding.
She buried her face in her hands.
Ten years.
Ten years of heartbreak, of writing fictional men who were only shadows of the one she left behind. Ten years of not knowing that he had written this letter. That he had tried.
Someone had hidden it. Sam. It had to be Sam. She had been the only other person who knew about Eloise’s love of vintage novels. The only one who would’ve had access to that edition of Wuthering Heights Rowan had once given her.
The realization hit her like a wave crashing down.
Sam hadn’t just kissed Rowan. She’d stolen the truth.
And Rowan had waited. All this time, he'd carried the weight of rejection, of silence, of blame.
Eloise clutched the letter to her chest and let herself cry.
—
Rowan returned an hour later, carrying a box of donated books and whistling some off-key melody.
He paused when he saw her.
Eloise stood behind the counter, holding the letter.
His smile faded. “Where did you find that?”
Her voice was soft. “In Wuthering Heights. Between pages 87 and 88.”
He stepped closer, his eyes wary. “You read it?”
She nodded.
Rowan swallowed. “I wrote that the night you left. I dropped it off at your dorm, but you were already gone. Sam said she’d make sure it got to you.”
Eloise’s breath caught. “She said that?”
He nodded again. “I trusted her.”
Eloise stared at him, her chest tightening. “I think… I think she never meant to give it to me. I think she wanted to keep us apart.”
Rowan’s face hardened. “Why?”
“Because she wanted me broken. And maybe she wanted you, too.”
A silence stretched between them, filled with all the unspoken words and stolen years.
Then Rowan stepped forward and gently took the letter from her hands. He looked down at it, as if seeing it for the first time, and then looked at her.
“I never stopped loving you.”
Eloise exhaled. “You said that in the letter.”
“It was true then,” Rowan said. “It’s still true now.”
She laughed, broken and teary. “God, you’re such a cliché.”
He smiled. “You write clichés for a living.”
“Touché.”
Their eyes locked. The tension between them was different now—not sharp and defensive, but raw, aching with possibility.
“I don’t know what this means,” she whispered. “I’m still scared. Still… hurt.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll wait.”
She took a step closer. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
And then, without overthinking, without questioning, Eloise leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t rushed. It was quiet. Tender. The kind of kiss that said, I see you. I forgive you. I’m still here.
When they broke apart, Rowan rested his forehead against hers.
“I missed you,” he murmured.
“I missed me too,” she said. “The me I used to be with you.”
The next few days passed in a soft blur.
They didn’t jump into anything. Eloise still had boundaries. Rowan still had scars. But they worked together in the shop, talked for hours after closing, and even started writing in the same room again—separate projects, side by side.
The town of Ashmoor, predictably, had thoughts.
At least five different shopkeepers “accidentally” dropped by to ask if it was true. Mrs. Latham from the florist offered them a two-for-one bouquet discount “for when you finally admit you’re dating again.” Even the mayor stopped Rowan at the farmer’s market and said, “Bout damn time.”
Eloise couldn’t stop smiling.
Until the package arrived.
It came in a plain manila envelope. No return address. Just her name typed neatly across the front.
Inside was a printed excerpt from her upcoming novel—one she hadn’t shared with anyone yet. Not even Rowan.
There was also a note. One sentence, cut from magazine letters like a ransom threat.
> “Some stories are better left unwritten.”
Eloise’s stomach turned.
Her manuscript had been on a password-protected laptop. How had someone accessed it?
She rushed to her desk and checked the draft. Nothing seemed missing. But the section sent—the most vulnerable part, where the heroine confronts her own fears—hadn’t even been sent to her editor yet.
Was it a warning? A threat?
Rowan came in as she was rereading the message for the tenth time. His expression darkened when he saw it.
“Do you think… Sam?”
Eloise hesitated. “It’s possible. She’s always known how to get under my skin. But why now?”
Rowan took the note, studied it. “You said your old email had been hacked before, right?”
“Yeah. A few months ago. I changed passwords.”
“But if someone got access before that—”
“They might’ve downloaded a copy.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched. “You think she’s trying to sabotage your release?”
Eloise wasn’t sure. But she knew this: the past wasn’t done with them yet.
And this time, it wasn’t just their hearts at risk.
It was her career. Her future. Their fragile second chance.
She looked up at Rowan, her voice quiet but fierce. “I’m not running again.”
His hand found hers. “Then neither am I.”
- Writer
