You found it tucked behind a stack of bills, folded neatly, edges worn. The envelope had your name on it, written in Ian Gallagher’s familiar scrawl.

Curious, you unfolded it carefully, and the words hit you like a punch you didn’t see coming:

"I wanted to tell you so many things… things I couldn’t say when we were together. I didn’t want to hurt you, but not saying them hurt me more. I love you—always have. You made me better, stronger, and sometimes I think you’re the only thing in this world that keeps me sane. I was scared, so I ran. I pushed you away when all I wanted was to hold on. I’m sorry. I hope you’re happy… even if it’s not with me."

You dropped the letter onto the table, hands trembling.

Everything suddenly made sense—the distance, the walls, the nights he disappeared, the unspoken tension that always lingered. Ian Gallagher had never stopped feeling. He had just… never found the courage to speak it aloud.

Later that night, you found him on the roof, smoking, the city lights reflecting in his tired eyes.

“You found it,” he said quietly before you even spoke, as if he had known.

You nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. The letter… you never sent it.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “I was scared, okay? Scared of losing you, scared of screwing it up, scared you’d hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” you said, moving closer. “I just… wish I’d known sooner.”

His shoulders slumped, and he looked older than his years, weighed down by regret. “Me too. I wish I’d been brave enough to tell you everything back then.”

You placed a hand on his arm, a gentle bridge across the months of unspoken feelings. “It’s not too late.”

Ian looked at you, eyes wide, hope and fear tangled together. “Not too late?”

“No,” you said softly. “We can still fix this… if we want to. We can start now.”

He let out a shaky breath, then smiled—the real one, the one that made your heart ache. “Then I’m not running this time. I promise.”