The box was wedged in the back of Ezra's closet, half-covered by old textbooks and a faded hoodie from his first year of med school. Talia hadn't meant to find it. She was just looking for a blanket.
The lid was slightly ajar.
Inside were old notebooks, sketches of anatomy, flashcards worn from use — and a thin envelope. Cream-colored. Unsealed. Her name written on the front in Ezra's familiar, all-capitals handwriting.
But the date in the corner was what stopped her heart.
Dated: October 12th — six months ago.
The week they had broken up.
Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted the letter. Her conscience told her to put it down. But her heart — her heart ached to know.
She unfolded it carefully.
Talia,
I won't send this.
Mostly because I don't think I deserve to.
I said I loved you, and then I disappeared.
I ran. I ghosted you after a stupid mistake — not yours, mine.
Because when I saw you in that kitchen, blurry-eyed, drunk, hurting, I realized something I wasn't ready to face:
You terrified me.
You — with your fire, your flaws, your truth.
You who never pretended to be okay when you weren't.
You, who called me out when I played it too safe, who made me feel things I'd buried under schedules and expectations.
And I loved you too much to be brave enough for you.
I thought walking away was noble. That if I stepped back, you'd be free.
But it wasn't noble. It was cowardice.
And now every version of the future I imagine has your laugh echoing in it.
Even now, I still check the door expecting you.
Even now, I say your name in my sleep.
I'm sorry.
For hurting you. For not showing up.
For not fighting harder for the one thing that ever felt like mine.
— Ezra
By the time she finished reading, Talia's eyes were wet. Not from sadness — but from the echo of everything they'd survived.
Six months ago, he couldn't send this letter.
But today, he was beside her. Waking up early to make her coffee. Choosing her. Building with her.
She folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, tucking it into the box gently, like a piece of something sacred.
When Ezra came home that evening, he found her in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something that smelled like cinnamon and honey.
He kissed her cheek, eyes soft. "Hey, you okay?"
Talia looked up at him, and without hesitation, asked, "Why didn't you send it?"
His brows furrowed slightly. "What?"
"The letter," she said. "October twelfth."
His expression faltered. For a second, he looked 21 again. Nervous. Vulnerable. "You found it?"
She nodded. "I wasn't snooping. Just… found it."
Ezra leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. "I didn't send it because I didn't think words could fix what I broke."
Talia moved toward him. "But you wrote them anyway."
"Because I couldn't say them out loud."
She took his hand, threading her fingers through his.
"You don't have to say them now," she whispered. "You already did. In the way you came back. In the way you stayed."
Ezra didn't speak.
He just pulled her into a hug, his arms wrapping around her like a vow.
And for a long moment, they stood there, the stove humming, the windows fogged with warmth, and a quiet understanding passed between them:
Love wasn't always loud.
Sometimes, it lived in the letters left unsent — and the choice to stay long after the silence.