—where we begin again
what was supposed to be a simple visit quickly becomes something else as old memories begin resurfacing in words you thought had long forgotten your name.
there are promises you never fulfilled. conversations you never finished. stories that no matter how many years pass, seem determined to find their way back to you. after all this time, life has once brought you home again.
a sequel to the age you were
.– …. . .-. . .– . -… . –. .. -. .- –. .- .. -.
pairings: older!sophia laforteza x younger! female reader
listen to
you’ve only realised this now but ever since the breakup, you have never went back to your parent’s house. not once. instead of you visiting them, they were always the ones making the trip to see you. your mother would come during holidays,
your sister would stop by whenever she happened to be in the city, and every year you would tell yourself that next time you’d be the one to visit because six hours wasn’t even that bad if you really thought about it. plenty of people travelled longer.
yet somehow there was always something else that needed your attention first and before you knew it, six years had already passed.
you felt awful about it when you realized, not because your mother ever complained. If anything, she made it easier for you to avoid feeling guilty.
every time you apologized over the phone she would brush it off and tell you that you were busy and that she understood. which only made you feel worse because she really did understand.
fair enough.
though,
you had promised her something years ago.
you promised that one day you would get her out of that old house.
the house itself wasn’t bad. it was actually huge compared to most houses in the area. but it looked old. the paint wasn’t as bright anymore, some parts of the roof looked like they had survived several typhoons purely out of stubbornness, and every time you visited as a teenager you would tell yourself that when you finally made it, when you finally had enough money, you’d buy your mother somewhere nicer.
the funny thing was that, now, you actually could.
you had the money.
you had the means.
but every time you brought it up your mother always said no.
no renovations.
no rebuilding.
no moving.
just nothing.
she said the house was fine.
but you somehow knew the reason why didn’t want to change it.
because it was the house your father built.
it was the house where they raised their children.
it was the house that still had traces of him in every room.
and if she changed too much, she was scared she would lose those traces too.
so after filing for a two-week leave that had been sitting in your drafts for almost three months because you kept postponing it, you packed a bag, got in your car, and drove six hours back to the place you used to call home.
the roads looked smaller now.
or maybe you just got older.
or maybe you were just too used to the city(?)
you passed by the stores that somehow still existed despite looking like they should’ve closed years ago. you passed by streets you used to walk through every day after school and suddenly found yourself remembering things you hadn’t thought about in years. teacher’s names. old classmates. the bakery your father used to stop by every sunday morning.
before you realized it, it was already three in the afternoon by the time you pulled up in front of the house.
and for a moment, you just sat there.
looking.
because the house looked exactly the same.
it became older, sure.
a little more worn down. but still the same.
then the front door opened. and there stood your mother. standing exactly where she always was whenever one of her children came home.
.– …. . .-. . .– . -… . –. .. -. .- –. .- .. -.
somehow, arriving at the house felt more nostalgic than actually walking around the neighborhood, maybe because the house still looked like it had been paused in time, like nothing about it had changed since the last moment you really lived inside it, but everything outside it had, everything around it felt slightly smaller
your mother was walking beside you the entire time, close enough that you could hear her breathing between small comments she made about the houses you passed, who moved away, who got married, whose children were already in college now. the kind of updates only mothers seemed to collect without effort or intention.
then out of nowhere, three dogs ran toward her, tails wagging so hard their bodies followed the movement, and your mother immediately bent down like this was something that happened all the time.
she hummed at them.
that was the moment something in your chest shifted without warning, because watching her like that, surrounded by dogs that trusted her easily has reminded you of something you hadn’t thought about in a long time.
the afternoons when it wasn’t dogs running toward her but you and your sister instead, racing each other without even thinking about it, just habit that had nowhere else to go except forward, toward her presence at the gate every time she came home.
your sister always got there first, you always insisted she cheated somehow even though you never really had proof, and your mother always laughed like it didn’t matter who won because she was already holding both of you anyway, and the memory came back so suddenly that it didn’t feel like remembering, it felt like briefly being placed back inside it without warning.
you kept walking after that, but slower now. your feet just kept moving.
then you found yourself there.
the mailbox.
no, not just one.
mailboxes.
four of them, still standing in the exact same place you remembered. you stopped. your mother stopped beside you too.
the paint had long faded.
you remember your father building these years ago after coming home from working overseas. he insisted on placing them there even when nobody really used mailboxes anymore, even when everyone already knew messages came through phones and calls and things that didn’t require waiting.
you remembered asking him why he still built them anyway, and he had just said something about how people didn’t have enough things to look forward to anymore, how everything arrived too quickly now, how he wanted you and your sister to still know what it felt like to check something every day even if nothing was there most of the time, just the possibility of something.
and for a while, when you were younger, you did.
you checked them constantly when you were younger because there was almost always something waiting inside.
your father loved leaving little letters for you and your sister, sometimes clues leading to surprises he had hidden around the house, sometimes small secrets that only the two of you were supposed to know, and sometimes just random notes because he thought life needed more things to look forward to.
the mailboxes eventually became their own way of communicating. when you and your sister got into arguments and were both too stubborn to apologize face to face, one of you would leave a folded “sorry” inside the other’s mailbox.
back then, there was something about writing things down that made everything softer. things that felt difficult to say out loud somehow became easier once they were folded into an envelope and left waiting for someone you loved to find.
for years, checking those mailboxes became part of your routine. then eventually life filled itself with other things. school. schedules. growing up.
and without ever really deciding to, it just stopped.
you stared at the mailbox with your name still on it, slightly faded but still there, and it felt strange seeing it like that, like looking at a version of yourself that had been waiting in one place while you kept moving forward without realizing you were leaving something behind.
“can i?” you asked without really thinking.
your mother only smiled.
“you still need permission?”
and you rolled your eyes a little, then smiled before reaching for the latch and pulling it open.
and that was when everything stopped, because inside wasn’t empty like you expected it to be, inside were letters, dozens of them stacked messily. your hand stayed still for a second longer than it should have before you even touched anything.
your fingers moved before your thoughts caught up, pulling one out, then another, then another, and all of them had your name written on them, not your mother’s handwriting, not your sister’s, something immediately familiar in a way your body recognized before your mind was willing to accept it.
you swallowed without meaning to.
“…what?” you let out, but it came out quieter than you intended, like your voice had to pass through something before reaching air. your brows were furrowed deeply, because you could clearly remember that there were no letters left there.
your mother leaned slightly closer, not asking, just watching, because she already knew what was happening and was letting you get there on your own anyway.
you turned one of the envelopes over in your hands, noticing the date, realizing it was from years ago, a day you vaguely remembered.
you opened it without planning to, just because your hands were already moving.
the handwriting immediately pulled something in your chest tighter because you knew it without needing to be told.
sophia.
and suddenly everything around you felt slightly blurry, like the present had stepped back just to let the past surface fully. you opened a letter, then another.
they weren’t all the same, some were birthdays, some were holidays, some were just random days that probably didn’t feel important when they were written but somehow mattered enough for her to remember you in them anyway.
it wasn’t dramatic.
but it was overwhelming in a loud way, because it felt like she had been speaking to you across time without expecting an answer. it was as if she had been placing pieces of herself into your life even when you weren’t there to receive them.
your mother then interrupted your thoughts before you could open another envelope.
“dear.”
you looked at her.
“hmm?”
she glanced at the stack of letters still sitting in your hands then toward the house.
“let’s head inside first.”
your eyes dropped back down to the envelopes.
“you can read those later.”
a pause.
“let’s prep that stomach first.”
a small laugh escaped you despite everything.
you were grateful for the interruption because if she hadn’t said anything, you weren’t entirely sure what would’ve happened. and somehow, you knew that she had ideas from the look she had given you.
there were just too many. too many letters. too many versions of sophia sitting inside those envelopes
and for once over the years, you weren’t ready. and you felt your stomach twist and drop.
so you carefully gathered the letters together and followed your mother back home.
.– …. . .-. . .– . -… . –. .. -. .- –. .- .. -.
the house smelled exactly the same. somehow. you didn’t know how but it smelled the way you remembered as a high schooler coming home from school.
your mother immediately shooed you toward the dining table then turned the television on to listen to the news.
“sit.” she hrged you
“ma—”
“you sit.” and so you sat.
because some things never changed.
dinner was simple. rice and curry. it was the kind of food you never realized you missed until it was sitting in front of you again.
you were about to start through your meal when the front door opened.
“ma, i’m home.” your sister.
as footsteps got closer, after that, immediately a thud was heard. your sister had dropped her belongings.
you looked at your mother, like getting her permission to stand and leave the table.
she gave you the look and so you stood.
you just turned around and was quickly met with a deep hug.
you felt how your shoulders got wet as the hug tightened.
she was crying.
you laughed.
“finally remember where you came from?” she spoke between sobs.
your mother laughed. and for a moment everything felt strangely normal. like you hadn’t spent years away. like life hadn’t happened. as if you were in high school again.
like all of you had simply continued a conversation that had only paused yesterday.
the letters remained beside your chair the entire evening.
you tried not to look at them.
but failed.
by the time night arrived, your curiosity had become impossible to ignore. so after saying goodnight, you gathered the stack and made your way upstairs.
.– …. . .-. . .– . -… . –. .. -. .- –. .- .. -.
your old room was exactly how you remembered it, in which somehow felt worse than if it had changed. you opened the balcony doors. the cool night air greeted you immediately and for the first time all day, you were alone.
you laid the letters on the table there.
your fingers found the oldest one and that familiar knot inside your stomach went back.
it was barely three weeks after the breakup.
you opened it and began reading.
—
10/21/20
mahal, i don’t know if you’ll ever read this. honestly, i’m not even sure if this will reach you. your mother might find it first, she might not, or maybe she might call me crazy for putting letters inside a mailbox i don’t even know if you still check. but i’m hoping. i keep replaying our last conversation in my head every single day. and every time i get to the end, i convince myself that maybe if i had said one thing differently, we’d still be together. maybe if i listened more. maybe if i could have understood better, and maybe if i didn’t walked out of your apartment that day.
i know you made your decision. i know i said that i would respect it. and i do, i really do. but i’m still hoping you’ll change your mind because i don’t want us to end like this. i don’t want us to end in the middle. if there’s anything left to fix, i want to fix it. if there’s anything left worth saving, i want to save it.
i still love you. i know that’s probably not helpful but it’s true. and if by some miracle you read this, please call me.
love,
sophia
__
you stared at her last words in the letter for a long time then took a big inhale. the paper meanwhile remained unfolded in your hands. the words stayed exactly where they had always been but somehow they felt heavier now.
because at twenty-five, you never got to read them.
at thirty-one, you finally could.
and that felt cruel somehow.
you carefully folded it back along the original creases before reaching for the next envelope.
the date was only a few weeks later.
—
mahal, this is such a stupid thing to write but i spent almost twenty minutes deciding whether i should tell you about my month, but then i remembered that i used to tell you everything. so i’m telling you anyway.
work has been exhausting. one of my coworkers somehow managed to send the wrong file to an entire client team and we’ve all been dealing with the consequences ever since. i thought about calling you when it happened because i already knew exactly what you would’ve said. you would’ve laughed first, then you would tell me to stop stressing because nobody died, and then i’d pretend i wasn’t smiling.
i honestly miss that. i miss talking to you about absolutely nothing. i miss sending you pictures of random things throughout the day. i miss hearing about your day. i miss knowing what you’re thinking.
it’s really strange. i spent so much time imagining what life would be like with you that now i keep accidentally imagining you’re still here. the other day i bought your favorite snack, didn’t realize it until i got home. it’s still sitting in my pantry and i don’t know what to do with it. sometimes i wish i had chosen my words more carefully that night.
sometimes i wonder if i pushed too hard. sometimes i wonder if i should’ve just held you that night instead. i don’t know. i don’t know anything anymore. i just know that i miss you. and i’m sorry. i’m sorry if everything made you feel like you weren’t enough.
i’m sorry if i ever made you feel small. i’m sorry if the things i did for you felt like a debt to pay. that was never supposed to happen. i miss you so much.
love,
sophia
—
the last few lines were slightly blurred but not enough to make the words unreadable, it was just enough for you to notice. just enough for you to realize she had cried while writing them.
your fingers lingered over the ink for a moment before moving onto the next letter.
—
mahal, i was working near your hometown a few days ago. the site was only about an hour away which is apparently close enough for memories to become a problem. i ended up driving through your neighborhood. i don’t think it was on purpose, at least.
i told myself i was taking a shortcut and we both know that’s a lie.
your street looked pretty much the same. your mother’s plants are still alive somehow. i genuinely think they’re immortal. i sat in my car for a while, just looking like a creep.
it reminded me of the christmas i spent there. do you remember? your mom kept insisting i eat more. your sister kept making fun of me. your dad spent thirty minutes explaining something to me and i’m embarrassed to admit i barely remember what it was.
it was my favorite christmas, i don’t think i ever told you that. i really should have.
i’ve been thinking about dropping this letter off myself. actually, if you’re reading this, then i probably did. which means i finally worked up the courage to drive there a second time. congratulations to me, i guess.
my birthday is next week. it feels weird and i don’t know why. i keep catching myself wondering if you’ll remember. which isn’t fair. i know that. but to wonder is free so :D. and if you do remember, i hope you’re smiling when you think of me. and i really hope you miss me too.
love,
sophia
—
you sat there longer than you meant to after the third letter.
the balcony had gone quiet in a way that didn’t feel peaceful anymore, just suspended, like the world had decided to stop interrupting you for a while and left you alone with everything you were holding.
you didn’t open the next envelope immediately because you knew. you already knew it wouldn’t get easier. it never did.
yet you just kept going anyway.
—
mahal, happy new year. i don’t really know how else to start this one.
i went to see fireworks tonight. i was alone which sounds sad when i write it like that but it wasn’t really. it was just quiet? not my usual new year where its loud.
a part of me thinks that it was probably quiet because i was thinking. i kept thinking about how i used to talk about spending new year somewhere far away, somewhere we could pretend the year behind us didn’t matter anymore. for the new year, i didn’t go anywhere far. i stayed here.
also, i took a photo of your favorite flower. i finally managed to grow it properly in the balcony. i don’t even know if you’ll see this but i’m putting it here anyway, just in case.
love,
sophia
—
the photo was printed and slightly creased, like it had been carried around more than once before being placed inside the envelope.
you held it carefully without turning it over yet. the flower was simple and familiar. too familiar.
you moved on to the next letter.
—
mahal, i watched a movie today. it reminded me of you so much it was actually annoying. i kept waiting for you to say something beside me since you always talked during movies.
i liked hearing you react to things. i liked how you saw perspective in movies differently from me.
there was a scene where the main character leaves and i just sat there thinking about how many times i’ve replayed our last conversation in my head. it doesn’t change. no matter how many times i try not to, it always ends the same. the thoughts of changing my words that night just keeps on adding up, one sentence to another.
i miss you so much, it’s starting to hurt physically.
love,
sophia
—
the next envelope was thinner.
your fingers hesitated before opening it.
—
mahal, work has been too much lately. i didn’t sleep properly for three days straight. my friends told me to rest but i don’t know how to. pero it’s real funny since i used to tell you everything when things got like this. you used to sit with me even when i was just complaining about things that didn’t really matter.
i hope you’re okay. i hope you’re taking care of yourself. and i just really wish you were here, that’s all. i miss you.
love,
sophia
—
the pattern started to feel familiar now and not in a comforting way, it was in a way that made your chest tighten more each time you recognized it.
and still you kept going.
—
mahal, happy valentine’s day. i don’t have a date. obviously. that sounds like a joke but it isn’t really. i really thought i would be okay by now. i thought it would get easier, but it doesn’t get closer to better.
i saw couples earlier holding hands and i had to leave the place because it felt too loud and mostly because i started missing you the longer i looked and watched them.
i keep telling myself i should move on properly, but i don’t know what that even means anymore.
i don’t want anyone else. that’s the problem. i don’t think i could ever will.
love,
sophia
—
the ink on this one looked slightly smudged, like it had been touched too many times before drying.
you swallowed before moving on.
—
mahal, i drank tonight. i don’t usually drink, you know that. i didn’t liked the taste, not even for a bit. but my friends kept insisting and i thought maybe it would help forget about you. it didn’t!!!!!!!
it just made me think about you louder. i kept waiting for the feeling to change into something lighter and it didn’t. The alcohol helped me remember your face much more clearly, and by surprise! orr not? i liked seeing your face in my mind. i really missed that. and so! the whole time i drank was just me thinking of you. i thought of our dates, kiss, talks, arguments, and most importantly! i thought of you. i miss you so much. i don’t want to say i love you to you in this letter because that would feel so intimate for me. part of the reason i don’t want to is because we’re not together anymore. but who can stop me?
i’m really sorry if this disappoints you. i just needed to say your name somewhere.
loving you still,
sophia
—
you stopped for a second after that one, your fingers tightened around the paper.
because it was the first time you noticed something subtle in all of this. sophia didn’t sound like someone falling apart terribly. she sounded like someone trying very hard not to, and failing anyway.
and for some reason her words felt ironic, she said she didn’t want to tell you she loves you because it would feel intimate, yet she has been calling you “mahal” in all her letters.
—
mahal, i just want to be honest. i think i’m starting to understand something i didn’t want to accept before.
loving you and waiting for you aren’t the same thing. i treated them like they were. i don’t think that was fair to either of us, because i still love you. and honestly, i think i always will in some way.
but i can’t keep building my life around a door that might never open. i think i’m going to try and stop waiting. i don’t know how yet. but i’m going to try.
love,
sophia
—
you sat still for a long time after this one, longer than the others.
you didn’t move for a while after that letter.
the paper stayed in your hands but you weren’t really holding it anymore the way you had been earlier.
now it just sat there loosely, like your grip had forgotten what it was supposed to do.
your chest felt strange in a way you couldn’t immediately name. not pain exactly. not sadness in the way you expected sadness to feel.
it was something slower and heavier. like your body was only now realizing it had been breathing through something for a very long time without noticing.
you looked down at the letters again.
all of them.
stacked like they had been waiting patiently for years for you to finally become the version of yourself who could read them without breaking in real time.
you weren’t sure if you were that person.
—
i think i’m starting to understand what i did wrong. not in a blaming way. but like, you know? in a clearer way. i think i kept loving you in ways i only understood and i thought like love alone was enough to hold us in place. like if i loved you harder, longer, or even more consistently, then nothing would go wrong.
but that’s not how it works. you needed time and i think i kept standing in it, waiting. that’s on me i know you didn’t ask me to wait, you actually told me not to, in your own way.
i keep thinking about that last conversation. how you looked at me like you were already somewhere far away even though you were still sitting right next to me. and it hurts to think this, but i think i’ve lost you even before you left.
when i realized you were already gone while still being there, i didn’t know how to explain that feeling to anyone else without sounding like i’m being dramatic. but you would understand. you always understood things i couldn’t say properly. that’s what makes this harder, because now i have to understand them alone.
—
you had to stop reading for a second, your hand pressed flat against your own stomach without you realizing it. there was a dull ache there, not sharp enough to name as pain, but constant enough that it made sitting still feel uncomfortable.
you swallowed.
your throat felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with tears yet.
you just kept going anyway.
the next envelope felt slightly different.
thicker again.
you already knew what that meant now. more days, more versions of her you hadn’t met.
—
august has been… difficult. i don’t know how else to put it. i tried to stop writing to you for a while, i really did. i thought maybe if i stopped putting you into words, i would slowly stop putting you into everything else too. it didn’t work.
i still think of you when i wake up.
i still think of you when i come home.
i still think of you when something good happens and my first instinct is to tell you before i remember i can’t.
i’m trying to move forward, i am. but some days it feels like i’m just learning how to live without something that used to be part of how i breathe.
i think i need to stop hoping you’ll come back, because it’s starting to hurt me physically.
—
your fingers paused on the paper. because that sentence didn’t feel like something written. it felt like something admitted. something someone only says when they’re already tired of holding it inside themselves.
you didn’t realize your eyes were stinging until you blinked and the blur didn’t go away.
you kept reading through it anyway.
—
i still love you, but i think i need to learn how to love you without waiting for you. and i don’t know if i can do that yet. but i’m going to try.
—
the paper slipped slightly in your hands. you adjusted it without thinking.
your fingers felt colder now than they had before.
you weren’t crying yet.
but your body was starting to prepare for it, like it understood something your mind was still resisting.
you opened the next letter.
and this time, before even reading the first line, you already felt the distance growing inside it.
not between words.
between versions of her.
—
mahal, i met someone. i didn’t expect to, because i wasn’t looking. i promise you that. it just happened. she’s kind. she listens. she doesn’t interrupt when i talk too much, like you. she makes me laugh in a way i haven’t in a long time. but she does make me laugh too the way you do.
but i hate how guilty that makes me feel. because part of me feels like i’m doing something wrong just by moving forward. like i’m betraying a version of myself that was still waiting for you.
but i’m really tired.
—
your stomach tightened slightly at that.
—
i don’t know what this means yet, i don’t know what i’m allowed to feel. but i know i can’t keep standing in the same place forever. they tell me those words too.
—
you stopped reading again.
your eyes drifted toward the remaining stack of letters beside you. they were smaller now, much smaller than before.
and somehow you hated that. you hated that your first reaction wasn’t relief.
it should’ve been relief.
my god, it should’ve been.
because every letter felt like reopening a wound you spent six years convincing yourself had already scarred over, every page making you relive moments that didn’t belong to you anymore, moments sophia had already survived years ago while you were only experiencing them now.
yet all you could think was
that’s it?
and the realization made you feel sick.
because what kind of person gets disappointed that there aren’t more letters from the woman who spent years teaching herself how to live without them?
for the first time since opening that mailbox, you finally understood what was happening to you.
the life you built after sophia wasn’t some grand act of moving on.
it wasn’t healing.
it wasn’t closure.
it was adaptation.
somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-one, you had built something around the absence of her without even realizing you were doing it. slowly and quietly. the way people rearrange furniture after someone moves out.
at first you noticed every empty space, every missing thing and every silence.
then one day you just stopped noticing. and then one day after that, the silence became normal. the absence became routine. the routine became a life. and somehow that life became stable enough that you stopped questioning it.
you had gotten yourself used to it.
so why now? why this? why did six years of carefully maintained distance collapse because of a mailbox?
because of a letter? because of words written by someone who had already moved on? you couldn’t process it.
not the way you usually processed things.
because this wasn’t something you ever allowed yourself to prepare for. you prepared for everything. that was how you survived. every possibility carefully organized before it happened. every conversation rehearsed. every disappointment anticipated. every version of what if dissected before life could ever spring it on you unexpectedly.
if you could predict the pain, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much when it arrived.
that was always the plan.
but this? this wasn’t part of the plan.
this wasn’t supposed to exist.
these letters weren’t supposed to be waiting for you six years later. they weren’t supposed to arrive after you’ve learned forcing yourself how to breathe without her.
and the problem wasn’t the letters.
it was what they were undoing.
because every page felt like someone carefully digging beneath a foundation you spent years building.
loosening the ground. lifting things you deliberately buried.
why was sophia so unfair?
the thought came suddenly. sharp enough to surprise you.
why would she do this?
why would she write all of this?
why would she leave them behind?
you wanted to be angry. you really did. because anger would’ve been easier. easier than grief. easier than guilt. easier than whatever this was.
she could’ve kept them.
could’ve hidden them somewhere.
could’ve thrown them away.
could’ve burned them.
could’ve done anything except leave them somewhere you might someday find them.
because now all the things you’d spent six years suppressing were rising back up. waiting exactly where you left them. and then, somewhere between one breath and the next, you finally understood why you’d been silent all these years.
it wasn’t because you had nothing to say.
it was because you knew exactly what would happen if you started.
you knew how much it would hurt.
you knew how quickly it would come back.
you knew once you opened that door, you wouldn’t know how to close it again.
and now here you were, reading everything
somehow that hurt more than the breakup itself. because this time you weren’t living through it. you were watching it happen. paper by paper. month by month. year by year. in reverse.
—
hey, so, i met someone. i said that already in one of the last letters but this feels different now. it doesn’t feel like an accident anymore. it feels like something i stopped resisting. her name is victoria. i didn’t plan for this. i really didn’t. i thought if i just kept everything in place long enough, i would eventually find my way back to you or you would find your way back to me. but nothing moved and i think i finally understand that waiting for something that isn’t coming is still a choice. and i choose not to wait anymore.
—
you forced yourself to keep reading.
—
she doesn’t ask me to explain myself all the time and i didn’t realize how exhausting it was to constantly be half in one place and half in another until i stopped doing it. i feel somehow lighter. because i think part of me believed that if i ever felt okay again, it would mean i stopped loving you properly. but i don’t think i have yet? i just don’t know where to put that love anymore.
—
your throat tightened slightly, just enough that swallowing felt like effort again.
you turned to another paper too quickly.
—
i think i’m happy. i don’t even know if you’ll ever read this.
—
you pressed your fingers against the edge of the envelope without realizing it was shaking slightly.
you hadn’t noticed that before.
the next letters were became different.
it wasn’t written like a normal letter anymore. it was a collection. dates. short entries.
—
she made me laugh so hard i forgot what i was thinking about earlier. i think that’s new for me.
—
—
i don’t talk about you out loud. not because i’m hiding it. i just don’t know how to explain it anymore without sounding like i’m still stuck there.
—
you read faster now.
—
we went to a small trip. i caught myself enjoying it without feeling guilty. the guilty feeling doesn’t show up now. that’s great.
—
—
i think i’m okay. i think i’ve been okay for longer than i admitted to myself. and i think that means i have to stop treating myself like i’m still waiting for you.
—
your chest didn’t fully rise the way it should have.
—
i met her family again. they asked me if i see a future with her. i said yes because i really do.
and somehow, i think i’m only writing to you now because we were friends before we got into the relationship. i think, i somehow want to preserve that friendship?
—
and then, nothing. no more entries. no more holidays spent writing your name. no more letters folded carefully into envelopes.
you looked inside the envelope but there was nothing.
and strangely enough, you were grateful for that.
because for the first time that night, you didn’t think about yourself. you were thinking about the other girl. about the woman who came after you. the woman who loved sophia after all the waiting was over.
the woman who stayed.
and suddenly you realized how painful it would’ve been if the letters had continued. if sophia had kept writing to you while building a life with someone else. if she had kept setting pieces of herself aside for you while asking another person to hold the rest.
that would’ve been cruel.
.– …. . .-. . .– . -… . –. .. -. .- –. .- .. -.
you didn't mean to fall asleep on the balcony. one moment you were sitting upright, letters scattered around you like evidence of a crime scene you hadn't known you’ve been a part of.
the next thing you knew, the sky had shifted into something darker and your cheek were pressed against the cold metal of the table. you hadn't slept so much as passed out from exhaustion. your body finally making a decision your mind couldn't.
when you woke, your eyes were swollen and your throat felt likesandpaper. you didn't remember crying but your face was wet and the pillow beneath her head had a damp patch the size of your fist.
you sat up slowly.
the letters were still there.
of course they were.
you gathered them without thinking, your hands moving on their own, stacking them back into the order you’d somehow memorized without trying.
and then she just sat there, looking at them, watching the morning light catch the edges of the paper.
you should throw them away.
that’s what you should do.
but instead, you slipped them back into their envelopes and stood up, your joints stiff from sleeping on a chair.
you walked downstairs, your feet familiar with every step even after all these years. tge house was quiet. your mother was in the kitchen, her back turned, stirring something
"i’m going to put these back," you said.
your mother didn't turn around. “mhm."
you walked out the front door, your bare feet remembering the path even if your mind had forgotten. the mailboxes stood where they'd always stood, unchanged except for the paint that had aged alongside everything else.
you opened the one with your name on it and placed the envelopes back inside.
every single one.
you closed the latch and stood there for a moment, like you were closing something that couldn't be reopened. then you went back inside.
your mother was waiting at the dining table when you returned. There was food in front of her, egg, bacon, and some kind of fried rice that smelled like home in a way that made your chest ache.
"sit," your mother said.
you sat.
your mother watched you . It wasn't the kind of watching that demanded anything. It was the kind that simply waited.
"you look tired."
"im fine."
"you look like you've been crying."
"i wasn’t —"
"your eyes are swollen."
your mother reached across the table and placed her hand over yours. it was warm and rough and everything she remembered from childhood except now the roughness felt different. like time had written itself into her mother's skin.
"are you okay?" you swallowed.
"yes." your mother didn't move.
"are you really okay?”
the "yeah" caught in your throat that time. you could feel it rising, that thing you'd been holding down since yesterday since before yesterday since six years ago, and you pushed it back down the way you’d always pushed it back down.
"yes, ma. i’m okay."
your mother studied you for a long moment.
Then she released her hand and stood up.
“come with me."
.– …. . .-. . .– . -… . –. .. -. .- –. .- .. -.
your mother's room hadn't changed.
It was the same bed, the same curtains, the same wooden rosary hanging from the lamp. but there was something different now. something in the way her mother moved toward her dresser, the way her hands hesitated before opening the bottom drawer.
"mom, what—"
your mother pulled out an envelope.
not a letter envelope. a different one. larger. heavier. there was something inside it that made the paper bend in a way that felt deliberate.
“this was left here for you.”
your mother’s voice was gentle and careful.
the kind people used when they already knew something was going to hurt. you looked down.
an envelope rested in her hands. your name was printed neatly across the front, not handwritten.
you didn’t reach for it.
you didn’t want to.
your mother seemed to understand. she simply walked over to the dresser and placed it there before quietly leaving the room.
the door clicked shut behind her.
and suddenly it was just you.
you and the envelope. you stared at it for a long time. long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable.
you could leave it there.
you could walk away.
you had done it before.
you had spent six years walking away from things that hurt. six years convincing yourself that some doors were better left unopened.
this could be one of them.
but your feet never moved and eventually your hands did what your heart had been afraid of doing all night.
you picked it up. the paper felt heavier than it should have.
inside was a card. simple and white.
the kind of invitation people kept in memory boxes for decades. your stomach dropped before you even started reading.
and somehow, deep down, you already knew. you really knew. you just didn’t know how much it would hurt to be right.
you opened it.
—
you are cordially invited to the wedding of
sophia laforteza
and
victoria chase
—
you read it once. then again. then a third time.
all you could do was stare. because it wasn’t the wedding. not really. it wasn’t even about victoria. it was what the invitation meant.
not the version you’d been reading through the letters. not the woman who spent years writing your name on paper because she didn’t know where else to put it.
that version of sophia was gone.
she had been gone for long.
you were not aware of it until just now.
something tightened painfully inside your chest and then suddenly breathing felt harder than it should have.
because for a long time you told yourself that this would’ve made you happy. you told yourself that if sophia found someone, you’d be relieved. you told yourself that if she got married one day, you’d smile and genuinely wish her well.
and maybe you would’ve.
if this had been the first thing you’d found.
if nothing had arrived by itself.
but it didn’t.
instead, you spent an entire night reading six years worth of loving.
the years worth of hoping.
the years worth of missing.
you watched her wait.
you watched her grieve.
you watched her slowly teach herself how to live without you.
and somewhere along the way, against your better judgment, your hopes started growing too. you didn’t want them to.
god, you didn’t.
but they did anyway.
with every letter.
with every “i miss you”’s.
with every birthday greeting.
with every holiday she spent writing to someone who wasn’t there.
some small, selfish part of you kept looking for a different ending. one where neither of you moved on. one where timing finally became kind.
one where the years somehow brought you back to each other. and now that hope was sitting in your hands, printed on expensive cardstock, being quietly put to rest.
the first tear fell before you noticed it.
then another.
then another again.
until suddenly it wasn’t tears anymore. it became grief. raw and ugly and years overdue.
your knees gave out before you could stop them. you sank onto the floor beside the bed, the invitation clenched tightly in your hands. and for the first time in six years,
you let yourself cry.
not the quiet crying you’ve been doing. not the kind you hid inside showers. or behind locked doors. or beneath the busy schedules and unfinished work.
this was different. this was everything.
all at once.
every excuse. every distraction. every lie you told yourself. it all came rushing back at once.
because the truth was,
you missed her.
you never stopped missing her.
you just became better at carrying it.
and now the weight was finally breaking.
the sob that left your chest barely sounded human. it hurt. actually hurt.
your chest felt tight. your stomach twisted. your throat burned and no amount of breathing seemed enough.
you didn’t know how long you sat there. you weren’t keeping track anymore. all you knew was that at some point the bedroom door opened.
and suddenly your mother was there. she didn’t ask questions. she didn’t tell you to calm down. she didn’t tell you everything would be okay. she simply sat beside you and pulled you into her arms.
and somehow that made everything worse.
because she wasn’t trying to stop your grief. she was letting you have it.
“why?” you choked out between sobs.
your hands trembling against the invitation.
“i endured it for six years.”
your voice cracked.
“i really did.”
another sob tore through you.
“s-so why can’t i endure it now?”
your mother didn’t answer. she just held you tighter. and for some reason that hurt more than any words could have.
because she knew.
she knew there was no answer. only grief.
“i missed her.”
the confession came out broken. small, pathetic, and honest.
“i missed her so much.”
your face disappeared into your mother’s shoulder.
“and i kept telling myself i didn’t.”
your breathing shook.
“i told myself i was fine.”
another sob.
“i told myself i made the right choice.”
you couldn’t continue, because every ugly truth you’d buried for six years was finally clawing its way back up.
the unsent messages.
the nights spent overworking yourself just for exhaustion to win.
the moments you almost called.
the moments you almost went back.
the moments you secretly wished she’d somehow still be there.
none of it had disappeared.
you had simply buried it well.
“i wanted her to wait.”
the words left before you could stop them and immediately you hated yourself for saying them.
because they were selfish. so unbearably selfish.
you really did wanted to be selfish.
“i wanted her to wait for me.”
your shoulders shook.
“but that wasn’t fair.”
you cried harder.
“it wasn’t fair to her.” because sophia deserved a life.
she deserved happiness and you wanted that for her. she deserved a future that wasn’t constantly postponed for someone who was still climbing.
you knew that. you had always known that.
which somehow made this hurt even more.
because sophia had done everything right.
she had loved you. she had let you go.
and eventually, she had let herself be happy. there was nobody to blame and that was the cruelest part.
because grief is easier when someone is at fault.
but this? this was just timing.
it’s just two people who wanted the same future at different moments in their lives.
and no matter how much you cried,
that was never going to change.
because she had moved on.
she found someone else.
she built a life without you in it.
and somehow that wasn’t the part that hurt the most because you always knew this day would come.
you weren’t naive enough to think sophia would spend the rest of her life waiting for someone who had asked her not to.
if anything, you had hoped she found someone. you had hoped she found the life she always talked about.
you wanted those things for her long before she stopped wanting them with you.
so why did it hurt so much?
and suddenly you understood.
it wasn’t because she moved on. it was because you had just watched her do it.
in the span of a few hours, you had witnessed the years spent of loving, grieving, hoping, waiting, healing, and eventually choosing someone else.
you watched her miss you.
you watched her cry over you.
you watched her write your name over and over again like saying it enough times might somehow bring you back.
you watched her slowly stop building a future around you.
and somehow, that felt cruel.
not because she did it.
because you had to see it happen.
all at once.
your younger self never got those letters. never saw the nights she spent writing them. never knew about the birthdays, the holidays, the random afternoons when she missed you so much that she needed to put it somewhere.
but you knew now.
and that knowledge sat heavily inside your chest.
you wanted to be angry at her.
for leaving them here.
for not taking them back.
for not throwing them away once she no longer needed them.
because what was the point?
what was the point of leaving almost six years of her life behind for you to find?
you respected her peace.
you never called. never reached out. never tried to reopen a door that had already closed.
so why couldn’t she have done the same?
did she know how hard this was?
did she know what it felt like to read someone love you for years after you were already gone?
to watch them slowly stop?
to reach the end of the letters and realize the version of sophia that loved you most had disappeared long before you ever got the chance to meet her again?
the thought made your chest tighten.
because deep down, beneath all the frustration and confusion and hurt, there was something even harder to admit.
your hopes had grown.
you didn’t want them to.
you really didn’t.
but they had.
with every letter, some small part of you kept expecting a different ending. something impossible. something unreasonable.
a part of you had started looking for signs that she never truly let go.
that maybe there was still a version of this story where neither of you ended up alone.
and now you felt stupid for it.
because sophia had already reached the final page, you were the only one who had just started reading.
and now, there was a wedding that happened just a week before you got here.
—
the cruel irony was life had brought the both of you back to the same place.
sophia was yet again standing at the next chapter of her life, ready to move forward.
and just like six years ago, you found yourself looking up from where you stood, watching her arrive somewhere you couldn’t be.
——
at thirty-one, sophia was grieving the life she was so used to with you.
now, at thirty-one, you were grieving the life you would never have with her.
