Micah hadn’t stopped thinking about the letter. It lived in his desk drawer, tucked between invoices and notepads. He hadn’t reread it, not because he didn’t want to, but because it hurt too much.

The letter was honest. More than he expected. Jada’s words peeled back things he hadn’t realized she understood.

But they didn’t erase the past.

He remembered the fight — her voice sharp, her silence afterward even sharper. The feeling of giving and never knowing if it was enough. She had always been somewhere else emotionally, just out of reach.

He told her to move on because he needed to heal. But healing didn’t mean forgetting.

So, when he saw her in Denvor Heights, something cracked.

She looked… different. Still Jada, but grounded. There was a softness to her — not weakness, but acceptance. The edges that once cut were now rounded by reflection.

And that made it harder.

Because he still cared. And he didn’t want to.

---

Later that night, he wrote a note of his own.

I read your letter. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel, but I keep thinking about you. Not in the way I used to — not the clinging, aching kind. Just… quietly. Like you’re a song I used to know the words to. I don’t hate you. But I don’t know if I can love you again, either. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I hope you forgive yourself. I’m trying to forgive you, too.

He didn’t send it.

But for now, writing it was enough.