It had been seven days.
Seven days since the notebook arrived on the porch.
Seven days since his words quietly shook loose all the walls she’d been building.
Seven days of writing her own truth in the back of that very notebook — each sentence peeling away the layers she had wrapped around herself to survive.
And now…
Now she was ready.
Amelia sat at the edge of the desk in Nora’s study, fingers hovering over the keys. She could’ve written it by hand — she almost did. But there was something about typing that made it easier to speak the kind of truth she couldn’t take back. Like each letter, each space, each deliberate pause was being chiseled from her chest and laid bare in pixels.
She took a breath.
And began.
Enzo,
I don’t know where to start.
There are too many versions of y
