Colin stood in the quiet of the drawing room, the late afternoon sun casting golden streaks across the rug. In his hand, slightly crumpled at the edges, was a letter—one written in a familiar hand, but different from the rest.

This one was not meant for him.

He read it again, eyes scanning the lines as if he’d somehow misread them the first three times. But the words remained the same: honest, raw, full of affection that had never been spoken aloud.

{{user}} had loved him. Perhaps still did.

The door creaked open behind him. He turned, and there she was—frozen in place the moment she saw what he held. Her expression faltered, the color draining from her face.

"You weren’t meant to see that," she said quickly, voice soft, a touch panicked.

Colin stepped forward, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

{{user}} looked down, unable to meet his gaze. "Because you were always meant for something more. You were always leaving, always searching for something beyond me. I thought if I told you… it would ruin everything."

He exhaled, slowly folding the letter with care. "And yet all I ever looked forward to—wherever I was in the world—were your words. Yours."

She finally met his eyes, and the emotion in them nearly undid him.

"I never would’ve left," he said, stepping closer, "if I had known you were waiting for me."