Rey no longer counted the days.
He no longer asked, "Did Aurel read my writing?"
That question had already been buried—
along with Aurel's last letter, still neatly folded under his pillow.
What remained now was only:
> "Am I healed enough to begin living again?"
---
Early in the morning, he sat in front of his laptop in his small halfway house room.
A cup of sweet tea on his right, a worn notebook on his left.
No sound except birds chirping from the guava tree in the backyard.
His fingers typed slowly.
Sentence by sentence, born from the quietest place in his heart:
> "Sometimes wounds don't need medicine.
Sometimes they just need to be heard, held, and given silence."
He didn't know why, but writing made him feel whole—
as if he were speaking to his past self—
the one who once fell, got lost, and nearly never came back.
---
In recent weeks, his writing had started to go viral.
Trauma and survivor support accounts on Instagram began quoting his lines.
Clips from his writing—signed only with the initial R—spread across TikTok and Reels.
> "This is written from the heart—insane…"
"Who is this R person? I'm crying reading this…"
But Rey never replied to any comments.
He just watched from afar, quietly.
He didn't want to be known.
He only wanted to be heard.
---
Until one day, someone from a local radio station contacted the foundation.
They wanted to interview Rey live, on a program titled "Writing to Survive."
Rey hesitated.
He almost refused.
But that night, he looked into the mirror and said to himself:
> "If you don't start speaking, you'll always be a shadow in someone else's story.
It's time to be the main character in your own life."
---
Two days later, Rey sat in a small radio studio, headphones over his ears,
his heartbeat loud enough to drown out the host's voice.
He didn't mention his real name.
He used only his pen name: R.
But when he started talking—about loss, about love left unfinished, about guilt that couldn't be erased—
his voice reached ears that knew it well.
---
In a small house on the edge of the city,
Aurel was feeding Reyhan while listening to the radio.
She barely noticed when the host said:
> "Today we're joined by the anonymous writer 'R,' whose writing has touched many hearts…"
But when Rey began to speak—
when that voice came through—soft, steady, heavy with hurt—
Aurel dropped the spoon.
Her face went pale. Her eyes widened.
And slowly, tears fell without warning.
It was a voice she knew.
The voice that once read poetry on the balcony of their rented house.
The voice that used to say, "I'm home, Rel," after late-night shifts.
The voice she once waited for… but never came back.
---
On the broadcast, Rey said:
> "I don't write to be recognized.
I write because it's the only way I know how to speak,
when the world is too loud to hear a broken person's voice."
"And if the person I once loved hears this…"
"I want her to know: I don't want to return.
I just want her to be at peace."
---
Aurel sobbed.
Reyhan stared at her, confused, then held her hand.
Aurel took a deep breath.
Then smiled faintly, though her face was still wet with tears.
> "He didn't come back…" she whispered softly,
"…but he's still saving me, just like he used to."