You didn’t know she’d been writing to you.

You only found out after Alexa came back home from treatment, thinner, paler—but with that same impossible spark in her eyes. Everyone said she’d been strong, that she never complained. But you knew better. You saw the way she flinched when people said “you’re lucky” like it was easy.

Weeks later, when you went to help her clean out her room, you found a small box tucked beneath her bed—tied with faded blue ribbon, your name written across the lid in shaky handwriting.

Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Some folded neatly. Others stained with tears or smudged ink.

The first one was dated six months ago.

“You don’t know how much I miss you. The hospital feels like another planet. The walls are too white. The air smells like something between bleach and fear. I keep imagining your voice—just one stupid joke from you would make me feel normal again.”

You sat on the edge of her bed, your throat closing.

Every letter was like a heartbeat—honest, scared, alive.

“Some nights I think about you and wonder if you’d still see me the same if you saw me now. I’m not pretty anymore. Not strong. Just tired. But thinking about you keeps me trying.”

And then—

“I dream about the day I can walk up to you again, no IVs, no nurses, just me. I’ll say something dumb like ‘miss me?’ and you’ll roll your eyes, but I know you’ll hug me anyway.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until the paper blurred.

When she came in and saw you with the box, she froze.

“I wasn’t going to let you see those,” she said softly. “They were… for me. For when I didn’t think I’d make it.”

You looked up, voice shaking. “You should’ve sent them.”

She smiled faintly, sitting beside you. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I wanted you to remember me laughing, not… hooked up to machines.”