Soap dropped the yellowed envelope on the table and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes were hard, but there was an almost defiant note in his voice.

"This is yours. Or at least it was."

You paused, looking at the envelope. It looked old, the paper a little worn, the ink faded in places. But your handwriting was recognizable even after all these years.

"Where did you find this?" You asked, carefully picking up the letter.

"I've had it all this time," He replied. "I thought I lost it, but I found it in my old stuff. Funny, huh?"

Your heart thudded in your chest. You tore the edge of the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper.

"Soap, if you're reading this, it means I never had the courage to say it to your face..."

You froze. It was the letter you never sent. The one you wrote, but then changed your mind about. Memories flashed before your eyes—that night when you thought everything was falling apart, when you wanted to tell him the truth, but fear was too much.

You looked up. Soap was looking right at you.

"So," his voice was tense "you never told me?"

You swallowed. The words that remained in that letter now had to be spoken out loud.