Samaya was the one who found the box.
It was tucked behind a loose panel beneath Aarya's old study table, sealed with tape that had long since turned brittle. She pulled it out gently, dust spiraling in the warm light that spilled through the freshly cleaned windows.
Inside were envelopes. Dozens.
All addressed.
All unsent.
"I used to write to you," Aarya whispered, kneeling beside her. "Every day, after… after I stopped showing up."
Ruhan joined them, crouching slowly, eyes locked on the faded ink. "Why didn't you send them?"
"I tried," she admitted. "The first few. But I was scared. And then ashamed. Then I thought maybe you'd moved on. So I just kept writing... and hiding them."
Dev sat cross-legged across from them. "That's how you survived it, didn't you? Talking to us without needing an answer."
She nodded. "I needed to believe you still existed. Even if you had forgotten me."
They opened the letters one by one.
Each was its own little storm — tiny pieces of her heart, sealed away like time capsules.
Ruhan,
Do you remember the library rooftop? I still dream about that night sometimes. You talked about stars like they owed you something. I believed every word you said.
Samaya,
I missed your voice today. I heard someone in the street laugh like you. I followed them halfway home before I realized it wasn't you.
Dev,
I heard a guitar string snap today. I swear it sounded like goodbye.
Some letters were short.
Some rambled across both sides of the page.
Some ended mid-sentence.
None of them asked to be forgiven.
None of them demanded to be understood.
They were just... love.
Unsent. Unreceived. But still alive.
At one point, Ruhan had to stand up and walk away, hand covering his mouth, eyes wet.
Dev stayed still, eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden floor.
Samaya read in silence, lips moving but voice unheard.
Aarya didn't cry.
Not anymore.
Because every unread letter now had a reader.
That night, they sat outside Aarya's house beneath the yellow glow of the lone streetlight.
The letters were stacked neatly beside them, bound together with a red shoelace Dev found under the bed.
Ruhan finally spoke. "Maybe we write her back."
Samaya turned. "To Aarya?"
"No," he said. "To the version of her that waited. To the version of us that ran."
Aarya gave a small smile. "You don't owe me anything."
Dev shook his head. "No, but we owe ourselves."
They began that night.
Writing slowly. Honestly. Not as a ritual — but as an answer.
A new box would be filled.
But this time, the letters wouldn't be hidden.
They'd be read aloud.
Left open.
Because the distance between then and now was no longer fear.
It was choice.
And they were finally choosing to show up.