You wrote to him while he was unconscious. Dozens of letters. Messy handwriting at first, then steadier as you grew. You told him everything — what you learned, what you missed, how angry you were that he wouldn’t wake up. You read them aloud sometimes, just in case. When you stopped, it felt like giving up.

In the circus, Jax keeps saying things that feel rehearsed. Phrases that sound borrowed. Comforting lines he doesn’t remember learning. When you finally appear, you recognize them instantly — they’re yours. Things you wrote when you were small and desperate and believed words could cross worlds. He says one of them without thinking. You freeze. “…Why do you look like that?” he asks, brow furrowing.