Chapter 12
462 Words
Fiona didn’t expect the letter.
Not a text, not an email—a real, handwritten letter in a plain white envelope, slipped under her door sometime while she was out. Her name scrawled in that unmistakable handwriting that had haunted her notebooks back in high school.
Jason.
She stared at it for a while, the way someone might stare at a bomb with wires sticking out. She knew she could throw it away. She also knew she wouldn’t.
Her fingers shook slightly as she opened it.
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> Fiona,
I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but I had to say this. Not to win you back. Not to mess things up again. Just to finally speak without the weight of timing and pride.
I was cruel to you. Maybe not on purpose, but does that matter? I saw your feelings and treated them like background noise because I was too selfish to see the girl behind them.
And when Jared got what I never appreciated, it broke something in me. Not because he had you. But because I realized I never really could.
I don’t deserve forgiveness. But I want you to know—I see you now. I really do.
And I hope you find someone who doesn’t just love you, but never makes you wonder if you’re enough.
—Jason
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She read it twice.
Then folded it and placed it in a drawer—not because she wanted to keep it, but because she didn’t want to forget what it took to walk away.
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Later that day, Fiona met Liam again. They walked through the city, coffee in hand, laughter soft between them. She told him about the letter, about how it made her feel like the past was finally letting go.
He looked at her quietly for a moment.
“You’re not the same girl anymore,” he said. “You don’t belong to their story. Not if you don’t want to.”
And for the first time, Fiona believed it.
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That night, Jared called.
She didn’t answer.
He texted once.
> I miss you. I’ll be at our spot tomorrow. Just once. If you want to come. If not, I’ll let go.
She sat with the message for hours. Not out of hesitation—but out of care. Because this time, she knew her choice wouldn’t be about guilt or ghosts or fear.
It would be about her.
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The next morning, she got dressed.
Not for him. Not for closure.
But for clarity.
Then she walked toward the old bridge behind the music hall—their spot.
And with every step, she asked herself the same question:
Do I still believe in the love we had?
- Writer
