You weren’t looking for anything.

You were just trying to clean up the guest room closet, the one that had slowly morphed into a museum of Spencer’s past. He and Mia were out for the afternoon, something about the science museum and gelato. You had the house to yourself. It was supposed to be a quiet, simple kind of day: you decided to take care of yourself, clean up your house a bit and just make beauty masks, have a glass of wine and watch some trashy tv show.

But then you found the notebook.

It was tucked beneath some old clothes. The cover was worn leather, the spine frayed. No title. No label. Just a rubber band wrapped twice around it.

You didn’t mean to look. You really didn’t. But curiosity got you so you opened it.

You immediately saw her name.

Maeve.

And the first line of the first page felt like it reached into your chest and twisted something deep inside.

”Maeve, I never got to say goodbye. So I write to you instead. Hoping you’ll read this whenever you are (I hope it’s in Heaven). I’m not sure if this helps or hurts. Maybe both. But I have to keep you somewhere, and, even if I have an eidetic memory, my memory isn’t reliable when it comes to feelings. Mostly when it comes to you.”

⸻

”Maeve, I met someone a few weeks ago. I was drinking my usual too-sweet black coffee when I heard someone arguing over the phone. I didn’t mean to make her feel uncomfortable but when she hung up she was crying. So I offered her a hot chocolate and asked her what’s wrong. I usually don’t do these things but I felt really sorry for her. Her name is {{user}} and she’s… she’s not like you. I don’t mean that in a bad way. She’s loud. And messy. She sings off-key in the street while we walk and doesn’t know what to do with silence. But when she smiles at me, it’s like I finally learned a new language after years of only speaking grief. Sometimes I wonder if you’d be angry. If you’d think I moved on too fast. But then I remember what you told me in my dream—that you wanted me to live. I’m trying, Maeve. I’m really trying.”

⸻

“Maeve, She stayed the night last week. We didn’t sleep. Not in the way you think. We talked. For hours. She fell asleep on my shoulder while I read her a short story by Stephen King. I think you’d like her. She listens. But she also argues. A lot. With this look on her face like she’s daring me to be smarter than her. Sometimes I let her win. I laugh around her. Do you know how strange that feels? Laughing again?”

⸻

“Maeve. We have been together for six months now, I love her. Not in the same way I loved you, but I’m in love just the same as I was with you. You just can’t love two people in the same way, you know? But she makes me happy, she makes me breathe again. I just love her. When she kisses me she always smiles, and then she jokes and makes fun of me all the time — but she doesn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s refreshing, you know? She keeps me on my toes, and challenges me every time. Sometimes I’m scared we are too different, but then she snuggles with me whispering how much she loves me, and I feel at peace again. Maybe we are meant to be. Did you send her to me, Maeve? Thank you if you did, you gave me back my life.”

⸻

“Maeve, I haven’t “sent you” a letter in a while. A lot happened, and I have never been happier. We have a daughter, Mia Diana Reid. Isn’t it beautiful? She has my mother’s name. Remember how i used to tell you about her? I cried, I cried a lot, but how couldn’t I? Don’t get offended if I say they are the loves of my life. I love you just the same, but each day I’m a bit surer that you are in both of them. Oh, we also got married. She was a mess when I asked her, and laughed a lot. She always laughs, she says she is just happy to be alive. Now she is sleeping on my chest, Mia is next to us. I love my life, Maeve.”

⸻

You just stay there, speechless. Then the front door opens, and you hear Mia’s voice and Spencer laughs. Then silence. You look toward the door, Spencer is leaning against it before he kneels next to you.

“Love, I— what are you doing?”