The Letter He Never Wanted to Write
You find it tucked under your apartment door. No knock. No text. No warning. Just an envelope with your name on it, written in messy, familiar handwriting you’d recognize anywhere. Your hands tremble before you even open it. Because Jason never writes letters. Jason barely even texts. Jason just shows up. But not today.
You close the door behind you, locking it automatically, like the click might keep whatever this is from hurting you. Your fingers hover over the envelope, tracing the sharp slant of the letters.
He pressed hard when he wrote it. He always does that when he’s upset. You swallow and open it.
If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t have the guts to say it to your face. You deserve that much, at least. More than this. More than me.
There’s a faint smudge near the edge of the ink. You brush your thumb over it, wondering if it was rain. Or blood. Or his hand hesitating.
I need you to listen carefully, okay? And I need you to hate me if that’s what it takes.
Your chest tightens. No. No, you don’t like this.
You can’t see me anymore.
The words blur instantly. You blink hard, forcing yourself to keep reading.
This isn’t because you did anything wrong. You didn’t. You never do. That’s part of the problem.
You’re good. You’re soft. You still smile at strangers and feed stray cats and apologize when someone else bumps into you. You still believe the world can be kind. And I don’t get to ruin that.
Your hands shake so badly the paper rustles. You remember the way he’d watch you when you laughed, like he couldn’t understand how someone like you existed. Like you were something fragile he didn’t deserve to touch.
Your breath stops. You don’t need him to say the name. You already know.
The word feels like ice in your veins.
He didn’t say your name. Not yet. But he knows you exist. He knows there’s someone I go back to. Someone I protect. Someone I love.
The tears fall before you can stop them. He never said it before. Not out loud. Not directly. Only in the way he held you like you might disappear. Only in the way he stayed until you fell asleep. Only in the way he always came back.
And that means you’re a target now.
Your heart pounds painfully.
I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.
The next line looks messier. Less controlled.
I’ve died once. I won’t survive watching it happen to you.
A sob escapes your throat, quiet and broken.
You don’t belong in my world. You never did. You belong in sunlight. In bookstores. In quiet mornings and soft things. Not in blood. Not in fear. Not with me.
Your fingers clutch the letter desperately.
So this is me ending it. I need you to forget me. Move on. Find someone normal. Someone who won’t come home at 3 a.m. covered in bruises and pretend it’s nothing. Someone who doesn’t bring monsters to your door just by loving you.
The paper wrinkles under your grip.
You’re too fragile. And I’m too good at breaking things.
Your tears drip onto the ink, smearing the words.
This is the only way I know how to keep you safe. If he thinks you don’t matter to me… He won’t touch you.
Your heart shatters quietly.
I’m sorry. For every moment I let myself pretend I could have this. Pretend I could have you. You made me feel human again. That was my first mistake.
The silence in your apartment is unbearable. He’s gone. No footsteps on your fire escape. No shadow outside your window. No quiet presence leaning against your doorway like he belongs there. Just emptiness. And the letter. You sink onto the floor, clutching it to your chest like it might bring him back. He thinks you’re fragile. He thinks you’ll break. He thinks pushing you away will save you. But he doesn’t understand. He already ruined you. Because now you know what it feels like to be loved by him. And nothing will ever compare to that.
Outside, somewhere in the darkness, Jason stands on a rooftop across the street. Watching your window. Making sure you’re safe. Even if you never know he’s there. Even if he has to break his own heart to do it.
