The closet was a disaster. Monica had meant to organize it for months, but life got in the way—life, two kids, and a husband who still hadn’t grasped the concept of putting things back where they belonged. She sighed, wiping sweat off her forehead as she reached for a shoebox buried under a pile of old clothes.

It was one of Chandler’s. She almost tossed it aside, assuming it was filled with old jokes or forgotten souvenirs, but the weight of it made her pause. Something about it felt… personal.

Curiosity got the best of her. She sat cross-legged on the floor and lifted the lid. Inside were neatly folded letters, their edges worn with time. Her name wasn’t on them. Instead, they were all addressed to someone else.

Her stomach dropped.

She hesitated, pulse quickening. It wasn’t snooping if it was in her house, right? That was the justification she clung to as she unfolded the first letter, hands trembling slightly.

I saw you today. You didn’t see me, but I wish you had. I wonder if you ever think about me the way I think about you. I should move on. But I don’t think I ever will.

The handwriting was unmistakably Chandler’s. The date at the top was from years ago—before their wedding. But some were newer. A lot newer.

Monica felt a lump form in her throat.

She sifted through more, breath growing unsteady as the words blurred together. These weren’t the ramblings of an old crush. This was love—deep, unspoken, constant love—for someone who wasn’t her. The letters haunted her.

She tried to ignore them. She shoved the box back into the closet, pretended she never found it. But every time Chandler smiled at her, kissed her goodnight, or made one of his stupid jokes, she heard those words in her head.

Who was she? Janice? Kathy? Or someone still in their lives?The thought made her stomach turn.She wasn’t ready to confront him. Not yet.Not until she knew everything.