The letter
624 Words
Kai’s POV
“Lina… wait.”
She stops just outside the gate, turning toward me with that soft, curious look I’m beginning to recognize.
There’s a moment when I could lie. Say something light. Let the silence stretch between us like it usually does.
But this time, I don’t.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” I say.
She doesn’t speak—just waits.
It’s strange how safe her silence feels.
“I found a letter. Months ago. After Nathan… after everything.”
She steps a little closer. “What kind of letter?”
I swallow. My fingers twitch at my sides.
“A letter he wrote. To me. Before he died.”
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t say anything. Just listens. That’s what she does—she listens like it matters.
And maybe that’s why I finally say it out loud.
---
It wasn’t a goodbye.
It wasn’t even meant to be found, I think. Tucked between pages of a songbook we used to share. The one with bent corners and coffee stains and scribbled lyrics only we could read.
Nathan’s handwriting—slightly slanted, always a little rushed—was across the bottom page. Just a few paragraphs.
He said he’d been feeling like he was breaking apart and didn’t know how to stop pretending everything was fine. That even though he looked like the strong one, he was tired.
He said he noticed I’d been slipping away too.
Said he hated that we both stopped saying the truth out loud.
> “I miss you, man,” he wrote.
“Even when we’re in the same room.”
That was the part that gutted me.
And the last line—I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.
> “You’ve always felt too much, Kai. That’s not a weakness—it’s your gift. Don’t shut yourself off because of me.”
He knew.
Even when I tried to hide it.
He always knew.
---
“I never told anyone,” I say quietly. “Not my mom. Not my dad. Not even Jesse.”
Lina’s expression is unreadable, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
“I didn’t know what to do with it. Reading it… made it worse, in a way. Made it real.”
Her voice is soft. “But also made it mean something.”
I nod.
“Why are you telling me?” she asks, gently.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe because writing with you felt like… breathing again.”
She doesn’t rush in with comfort or clichés.
She just reaches for my hand.
Not to squeeze it.
Not to hold it.
Just to touch it. Like an anchor.
And it’s the smallest thing. But it undoes me more than any hug or tear could.
---
We don’t say much after that.
She walks me halfway down the block before turning for home.
Right before she leaves, she says, “You should never feel like you can't tell anything."
And then she’s gone.
---
Later that night, I pull out the songbook.
I haven’t opened it in months.
The letter’s still there, tucked exactly where I left it. The paper soft from folding, edges a little torn.
I don’t reread it.
I don’t need to.
It lives in me now. Every word.
Instead, I flip a few pages forward and scrawl something new:
> “Grief taught me silence.
Music gave it a voice again.”
---
The next morning, I walk into school lighter than I’ve felt in a long time.
Not healed.
Not okay.
But… open.
And as I round the corner, I spot her near the lockers, head bent over her phone, earbuds in.
She looks up.
Smiles.
- Writer
