Lila
The candle had burned down to a puddle, flickering low enough that shadows danced along the walls of my room, stretching long and uncertain.
Unable to sleep, I sat cross-legged on the floor, the marble cool against my legs even through the thin fabric of my nightdress. The original letter rested in my lap—creased, a little smudged, the ink slightly faded at the edges where I’d held it too tight.
I read it again, slowly. Whispered the words to myself. They weren’t lies, but they weren’t enough.
I’d left too much out. I’d written like I was still afraid—guarded even in my truth. And if I was going to risk anything at all, it had to be real. All of it. Not the version that protected me. Not the one that made it easier for him to forgive me.
It needed to be the full truth. Even if
