One More Yesterday

Episode 7: Words That Were Never Read

Morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, catching the dust in the air like a golden snowfall. Emma stood at the sink, her fingers wrapped tightly around a mug of untouched coffee. The bundle of Jack’s letters sat on the table behind her, tied now with a blue ribbon she’d found in her mother’s old sewing drawer.

She hadn’t slept. Not really. The attic’s chill had faded, but the ache in her chest hadn’t. Every word Jack had written played over in her mind—pleas she had never heard, pain she had never known he carried.

And now, she couldn’t stop thinking: *What if I had read them? What would my life have looked like? What would I have fought for instead of running?*

She turned at the sound of footsteps. Her father shuffled into the room, leaning on his cane, a knitted shawl thrown over his shoulders.

“Morning,” he rasped, giving her a soft smile.

“Hey, Dad.” She set the coffee down and helped him to his chair.

He noticed the letters immediately. “What’s all this?”

Emma sat beside him, the bundle clutched in her lap. She hesitated before answering. “Letters. From Jack. From the night I left... and months after.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed, his gaze sharpening with concern. “He wrote to you?”

“A lot,” she said, her voice thick. “I never saw them. They ended up in the attic somehow. I found them last night.”

Arthur leaned forward as best he could, eyes flickering down to the worn paper. “Can I see one?”

Emma nodded and untied the ribbon with trembling fingers. She pulled a letter from the middle—one written two months after she left. As she unfolded it and began to read aloud, her voice cracked but didn’t stop.

> *Em—*

>

> *I still walk down to the creek sometimes. Not because I think you'll be there—though part of me always hopes you might—but because it’s the only place where I can remember us without it hurting too much.*

>

> *People say time heals, but I don’t know if it does. Not when it comes to you. I think I’ll always wonder if I could’ve done more. Fought harder. Waited longer.*

>

> *I miss your laugh. I miss the way you saw the world. I miss being seen the way only you ever saw me.*

>

> *If this letter ever reaches you… just know I never stopped loving you. Not for a day.*

By the time she finished, her cheeks were damp with tears. She didn’t look up right away—didn’t trust herself to.

When she finally did, her father was wiping his eyes with the edge of his sleeve.

“Oh, Emma,” he whispered. “All this time…”

She reached for his hand, gripping it tightly. “I thought he gave up on me. That he just let me go. But he didn’t, Dad. He tried.”

Arthur was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Jack used to come by the house after you left. Every few weeks. He never stayed long. Just asked if there was news. Left flowers on the porch once or twice. I thought… I thought maybe you needed distance. I didn’t know about the letters.”

Emma shook her head. “Neither did I. I don’t even know how they got packed away. But they change everything.”

Her father watched her, his voice a little stronger now. “Do you still love him?”

Emma looked down at the bundle in her lap, running her fingers along the creases of the paper. “I never stopped. I just… buried it.”

Arthur’s hand tightened around hers. “Then maybe this time, don’t run. If life’s taught me anything, it’s that love—real love—it doesn’t come around often. And when it does, you hold on. Even if it’s scary. Especially when it’s scary.”

Emma let his words settle inside her. She’d spent so long building walls, choosing solitude over vulnerability. But maybe she was done being afraid. Maybe it was time to stop mourning the life she *could’ve* had and start fighting for the one she *still* might.

She reached for another letter, unfolded it carefully, and smiled softly.

“I think I’m going to talk to him,” she said. “Really talk. No more hiding.”

Arthur squeezed her hand. “Good. That boy has waited long enough.”