There were letters Violet had never written.
Letters that burned at the edges of her fingertips when she tried to sleep. Words she had shoved into drawers of silence because it was easier than saying them aloud.
But now, they were starting to leak out—like light through a cracked window.
She didn't tell Adam this right away. She just started organizing. One box, then another. Old journals, forgotten photo albums, her father's vintage record collection still wrapped in newspaper from ten years ago. She opened everything.
"You okay?" Adam asked one evening, as Violet sat cross-legged in the living room, surrounded by piles of aged papers.
"I think I'm finally ready to know what I've been avoiding," she said, without looking up.
He didn't push. Just sat beside her and quietly began to help.
---
It was in a folder marked 'Tax Receipts 2004' that she found it—an unopened letter addressed to her mother, in her father's handwriting.
The date was barely legible, but she could make out the smudge of ink near the bottom.
June 2nd.
One week before her mother left.
Her heart kicked against her ribs.
"Read it," Adam said gently. "If you want."
She stared at the envelope for a long time, then peeled it open slowly.
Elena,
I don't know how to say this without sounding like I'm unraveling. But maybe I am. Maybe you are too. Maybe we've both tried so hard to build a life out of old dreams that we didn't see the new ones forming right under our noses.
I know you're restless. I see it in the way you stare at the horizon like it owes you something. I feel it when you kiss me like you're already leaving.
But I also know this: Violet needs you. And so do I, even when I pretend otherwise.
If you have to go, I won't stop you. But if there's a version of this story where you stay—stay.
I'll forgive you for the leaving. But I'll always wonder what we could've been if you chose to remain.
—
Violet didn't realize she was crying until the ink started to blur on the page.
Adam took the letter from her hands and set it aside gently.
"I didn't know he tried to stop her," she whispered.
"Maybe it wasn't about stopping," Adam said. "Maybe it was about letting her choose."
"Do you think she regretted it?"
"I think people regret the things they never let themselves fix."
Violet sat quietly with that.
---
The next morning, the town woke to an unexpected announcement: the Elden Bridge Literary Festival was returning—for the first time in twenty years.
The announcement was posted on a bulletin board downtown, tucked between a flyer for dog yoga and a missing pie dish.
Adam found it while picking up coffee and brought it back like it was treasure.
"Guess who's been asked to open the festival with a reading?" he said, grinning.
Violet blinked. "Wait—me?"
He nodded. "Apparently your little book of heartbreak letters is causing a literary renaissance."
"Oh god."
"You're famous."
"I'm not wearing a beret, Adam."
"Too late," he said, pulling one from behind his back.
She shrieked with laughter and smacked him with a kitchen towel.
---
Preparations for the festival began almost immediately. Aunt Marianne offered to host a reading circle in her backyard garden, complete with fairy lights and strong opinions. Violet's old English teacher offered to help curate excerpts. And someone in town even dusted off the creaky old podium that hadn't seen sunlight since the early 2000s.
As the festival approached, Violet began to feel something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Pride.
Not just in her work—but in herself. In the girl who had survived the silence. In the woman who dared to write her way through grief.
Still, the night before the reading, nerves took over.
"What if I blank out?" she asked, pacing their living room in socks and a threadbare cardigan. "What if I burst into tears halfway through and everyone just awkwardly claps like it's performance art?"
Adam was sitting on the couch, holding her marked-up manuscript. "Then you'll be human. And they'll love you for it."
"You think?"
"I know."
She sighed, collapsing beside him. "Why are you always so steady?"
"Because I've been waiting to watch you shine," he said, kissing her forehead.
---
The festival opened under a clear blue sky. Children ran between booths selling old books, teenagers read poems on benches, and someone played the cello near the old bakery.
When it was time for Violet to speak, the crowd hushed.
She stepped up to the podium, holding her book like it might disappear if she let go.
"Hi," she began. "I'm Violet. I used to think leaving was the only way to survive. But sometimes… staying teaches you how to live."
She read from her letters—one to her mother, one to her younger self, one to the version of her that still grieved in silence.
And when she finished, there was a pause. A heartbeat of stillness.
Then the town applauded—loud and long.
Violet scanned the crowd, and there he was—Adam, hands in his pockets, eyes shining like he was seeing her for the first time all over again.
---
That night, they walked home under strings of festival lights. Adam reached out and took her hand.
"You know what I loved most about tonight?" he asked.
"The part where Aunt Marianne yelled 'Preach it, baby!' mid-sentence?"
He laughed. "Besides that."
"What?"
"The part where you finally believed you belonged."
Violet smiled. "I think I did."
They stopped at the gate of their apartment. The stars were out, glittering like secrets in the dark.
Adam turned to her. "Violet."
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
She blinked. "That's the first time you've said that."
"I've said it a hundred times," he replied. "Just not with words."
She looked at him, really looked—and realized she'd known all along.
"I love you too."
And there, under the sky where so many things had been lost and found, they kissed. Not the first kiss, not even the best.
But the one that felt like home.
---