It had been nearly four months since Rey arrived at the recovery hospital.
He no longer counted the days.
He used to count the seconds, hoping to hear Aurel's footsteps in the hallway, hoping to see her face appear with a bag of warm food—like she used to bring.
Now, he counted only one thing:
> "How many versions of myself have I buried today?"
---
That morning, the hospital director and two representatives from a literacy foundation visited his room.
"We've read all your writing, Rey," said an older woman in glasses. "We'd like to offer you a position as an in-house writer. We've also spoken with the hospital."
Rey simply looked at them.
"If you're willing… you can leave next week under conditional recovery status. But you'll have to be ready to live in the real world again. Without these walls."
Rey didn't respond right away.
But that night, he sat in his usual small writing room.
His laptop screen was open.
And he created a new folder:
> "A Future Without You."
---
A few days later, Rey stood at the hospital gate, holding a small bag and a recommendation letter.
The sky was blue. The wind was calm.
But his chest felt tight—like he was heading into battle.
He didn't know where he would live next.
But what he did know was: he never wanted to return to the place where all his pain lived.
---
That afternoon, when he arrived at the foundation's halfway house, the front desk staff handed him a thin package.
"This was sent by someone named Aurel," she said.
"She said it's not a love letter. Just… a letter that doesn't need a reply."
Rey stared at the package for a long time.
And that night, in a small room that still smelled of fresh paint, he opened it.
---
Aurel's letter:
> To Rey—the one I once hoped would come back while I was still strong enough to wait.
I won't start this letter with "how are you,"
because I know by now you're doing better than the last time we met.
I'm sending this not to disturb your life again.
Not to reopen wounds.
But because there's one last thing I need to say
before I truly close our chapter.
You were everything to me once, Rey.
And your leaving—without a word, without goodbye—
wasn't your fault.
I know you did it for the future.
But you should know one thing:
When you left, I lost myself too.
For years I tried to forget you.
But I failed.
Even after I got married, your shadow would sometimes stand quietly in the corner of my thoughts.
Not because I still wanted you back,
but because you were a wound that couldn't be healed—only accepted.
> Now I am a mother.
And I've learned that the greatest kind of love
isn't about keeping someone,
but letting them go
so they can find themselves—even if it means losing them forever.
> I loved you.
But I can't love you anymore.
Not because I hate you.
But because I've chosen to love the life I have now—
without you in it.
Thank you for writing that story.
Reading it helped me heal the kind of pain
even time couldn't reach.
Don't reply to this letter.
Because not all love needs an answer.
Sometimes love just needs a quiet place to rest—
like ashes that fall gently to the earth and become part of the soil.
Live well, Rey.
Truly live, this time.
> – Aurel
---
Rey closed his eyes.
Then slipped the letter under his pillow.
That night, he slept more soundly than ever before.
No dreams. No restlessness.
And the next morning, he woke up and turned on his laptop.
He began to write again.
But this time, not about Aurel.
This time, he wrote about himself—
about a man who once loved so deeply,
and finally learned:
> "Not every loss needs to be mourned.
Some losses teach us how to come home to ourselves."