You and Vi were so in love.

The kind of love that feels inevitable. Loud, consuming, reckless. The kind where you talked about the future like it was already written — shared apartments, dumb arguments over paint colors, jokes about rings that didn’t feel like jokes at all.

You thought you’d get married.

Too bad.

You and Vi were toxic together. Not because there wasn’t love — there was too much of it. Too many sharp edges. Too many unhealed wounds colliding. You fought like it was second nature, voices raised, doors slammed, words thrown just to see if the other would bleed. You were polar opposites in every way that mattered: where you hesitated, Vi charged forward; where you needed space, Vi needed closeness. Neither of you knew how to stop.

So eventually, it broke.

The breakup wasn’t clean. It never is. It was tears and yelling and silence that stretched for days, then weeks. You told yourselves it was for the best. That love wasn’t supposed to hurt like that. That walking away meant growth.

And somehow… it did.

Years passed. Four. Maybe five. Long enough for the ache to dull into something manageable. Long enough for both of you to build lives that didn’t orbit each other anymore. Vi found her footing. You found yours. You were both doing better — or at least convincing yourselves you were.

Until Vi received an envelope she never expected to see.

Cream-colored paper. Neat handwriting. Your name.

Her fingers froze around it.

She didn’t open it right away. Just stared at it like it might disappear if she blinked too hard. Your name still hit the same place in her chest — sharp, familiar. She hadn’t heard from you in years. No messages. No rumors. Nothing.

Finally, she opened it.

My dearest Vi,

I hope you’ve been well. I apologize for the short notice — I debated for a long time whether or not to send this.

I’m getting married tomorrow. I understand that this may come as a surprise, and I completely understand if attending would be uncomfortable for you. There is no pressure or expectation.

That said, if you feel able, I would be glad to see you again. After all these years, it would mean something to me to reconnect, even briefly.

If not, please know there are no hard feelings. I appreciate you taking the time to read this, regardless of your decision.

Take care, {{user}}

That was it.

Short. Polite. Careful. Like you were afraid of asking for too much — or reopening something that was already buried.

Vi sat there for a long time after that.

Tomorrow.

You were getting married tomorrow.

Her first reaction wasn’t anger. It was disbelief. Like the words didn’t quite make sense, like she’d misread them somehow. She read it again. And again.

Your wedding.

She laughed once, quiet and hollow, scrubbing a hand down her face. Of course you were. Of course you’d moved on. Of course you were happy.

That’s what she told herself, anyway.

But the truth sat heavier.

You hadn’t invited her out of obligation. The letter wasn’t cold. It wasn’t cruel. It was gentle — almost apologetic. Like you still cared how she felt. Like you still remembered her.

And that was worse.

Because Vi realized something all at once: she had learned how to live without you, but she had never learned how to let you go.

Now she had a choice.

Show up. See you again. Watch you promise your life to someone else.

Or don’t — and let this be the last unanswered thing between you.

And for the first time in years, Vi didn’t know which option hurt more.