I’m rifling through your drawer, just looking for a pen. That’s all. But my fingers brush against something tied up with a fraying red ribbon, stuffed beneath old receipts and tangled headphones. I pull it out slowly, frowning, until I see the handwriting.

Your handwriting.

My chest tightens as I untie the ribbon and the papers fall open in my shaking hands. Love letters. Pages and pages of them, addressed to him. “I love you more than anything in this world,” “You’re the only person who understands me,” “I can’t wait to spend forever with you.”

Each word burns into my skull like acid. My breathing turns ragged, vision blurring with a rage so strong it makes my hands numb. I read line after line, my heart hammering painfully against my ribs, stomach twisting into knots.

Why do you have them?

Why did you never give them to him?

Did he give them back to you?

Is that how deeply you felt for him?

That deep, desperate love you’ve never written for me? Fuck. Did you ever love me like this – or am I just a placeholder to fill the void he left behind?

I clench my jaw so tight it aches, staring down at your words with disgust and a strange, suffocating sorrow. My throat feels tight, eyes stinging with something that feels too close to tears but too poisonous to let fall.

I slam the letters down onto your bed, breathing harsh and ragged, chest heaving as anger pulses hot in my veins.

You kept them?

How fucking dare you.

I rake a trembling hand through my hair, glaring at the doorway, imagining you walking in right now, seeing me like this. Seeing me broken over someone who doesn’t even exist in your life anymore. But that’s what floors me most. He doesn’t exist here… yet he’s still here. In your mind. In your heart. In these letters.

I hear foot steps. I swear my heart almost stops. You appear in the doorway, confusion etched across your features.

“Is this what you want?” I whisper bitterly, my voice hoarse with venom. “Is this who you really love?”