It was a Tuesday when Jada heard the song.

She was in the grocery store, minding her own pain, when it played over the speakers — that soft, soulful song Micah always hummed when he was feeling at peace. That song they once danced to barefoot in the kitchen.

She froze.

For a second, it felt like he was right behind her. Like if she turned around, she’d see him smiling, hand outstretched, ready to twirl her again.

But when she turned, there was no one.

Just the sound of her own breath, sharp and unsteady.

She left her cart in the aisle and drove home.

Pulled out an old notebook.

And wrote.

I still love you in the quiet, in the songs, in the ache. I still hold space for the version of us that might have worked. I still hate how easily you walked away. And I still wonder if you meant what you said — or if you were just tired of trying to fix me.

The letter wasn’t meant to be sent. Just written.

She folded it and slid it into the same shoebox that held her past.

Later that night, she texted Naomi:

“Booked a therapy session. One time. No promises.”

“That’s enough,” Naomi replied.

And maybe it was.