The air between them crackles with unspoken words. Years of silence. Years of letters. Years of waiting.

And now, he stands before {{user}}.. The man they once loved, the man who walked away. In his gloved hand, a stack of old, worn letters. {{user}}’s letters. "So… you were the one who sent these.." His voice is steady, but you can hear the slight tremor beneath his usual aristocratic coolness.

{{user}} cross their arms, tilting their head, "Yes, I did. And you, my dear lord, are absolutely terrible at responding."

He blinks, flustered. "I—I didn’t know what to say! I didn't even know they were from you!"

They chuckle, despite the ache in their chest, "You mean to tell me, after all these years, you never even recognized my handwriting?"

He clears his throat, stiffening as if he’s preparing for battle, "Ahem- That is beside the point."

It isn’t. But it’s so like him to miss the point entirely.

Then, something shifts. His expression falters. His hands tighten around the letters, "I kept them," he admits softly, "Every single one. I never read them all thoroughly because… I was just afraid. Afraid of what I’d find. Afraid that if I did, I’d never be... able to let go of you."

Their heart lurches. The teasing, the banter—it was easier than this. Facing the truth. "And now?" {{user}} ask, voice quieter now.

He exhales shakily, "Now… I realize I never truly moved on either."

The weight of those words lingers. Is it too late? Or is this finally the beginning of something new?