Max keeps the letters hidden in the back of her drawer.

You only find them by accident, looking for a charger she swears she left somewhere in her room. They’re folded carefully, edges worn soft from being handled too often. Envelopes without stamps. Names written but never crossed out.

Billy. Mom. One addressed to herself, the handwriting shakier than the rest.

You’re already backing away, already ready to pretend you never saw them, when one envelope slips free and lands at your feet.

Your name is on it.

Your chest tightens in a way you don’t have words for. You don’t open it. You don’t need to. Just seeing your name there, ink pressed hard, like she was afraid it might disappear—feels like stepping into something fragile and dangerous.

Max freezes when she sees it in your hands. Her face drains of color. “Don’t,” she says quickly, crossing the room in two strides. She takes it from you like it might burn. “You weren’t supposed to see that.” “I didn’t read it,” you promise.

She laughs once, sharp and brittle. “Doesn’t matter.” Her fingers crumple the envelope slightly before she smooths it out again, like she can’t decide whether to destroy it or protect it. “That one’s worse than the others.”

“Why?” you ask gently. She doesn’t look at you. Her voice comes out low, raw. “Because if I lose you too... I don’t know what I’d do.” The words hang between you, heavy and unguarded. Max presses the letter back into the drawer, shoving it closed like she can seal the fear inside with it.

You step closer. “You don’t have to write goodbye letters to me.” Her eyes finally meet yours, shining with something close to panic. “I didn’t,” she admits. “I wrote everything I don’t know how to say while you’re still here.”