Chapter 3: "Send Her My Love"

Lucas Begins Writing the Letter to Jessica

The room feels heavier tonight. The only light comes from the small lamp on my desk, casting a dim, warm glow over the mess of papers, sketches, and the half-empty coffee cup I’ve forgotten about for hours. Outside, the city hums quietly, the flicker of distant lights barely noticeable through the window. But none of it matters. Not right now.

I sit at my desk, staring at the blank page in front of me. The pen feels awkward in my hand, heavier than it should. It’s just paper, just ink—so why does this feel like the hardest thing I’ve ever done?

Just start, I tell myself, but the words don’t come. Not yet. Instead, memories of Jessica flood my mind, uninvited and all at once. Her laugh, the way she used to curl up next to me while I sketched late into the night, the way she said my name like it meant something. And then the way it all fell apart, like a building collapsing from the inside out, too fast to stop.

I press the pen to the paper, but nothing happens. My hand freezes, as if it knows what I’m about to do and refuses to cooperate.

What am I even trying to say? Do I want closure? Do I want to tell her I’m sorry? Or am I just trying to make sense of everything that still doesn’t make sense?

With a sigh, I start to write. The words come out awkward and forced, like I’m trying too hard.

Jessica—

I stare at her name for too long. It feels strange seeing it on paper, almost like I’m calling her back into my life, and I’m not sure I want that. I scratch it out, shaking my head.

I try again.

It’s been a while. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do, but I need to say this...

I stop, the pen hovering over the page. That’s not right either. It sounds too formal, too distant. I cross it out, frustrated, and toss the pen onto the desk. My hands run through my hair as I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. This shouldn’t be this hard.

My eyes drift to the sketches beside me. They’re still unfinished, the lines too sharp, too rigid. Just like everything else lately. I used to love this—creating something from nothing, designing spaces where people could live and breathe. But now it feels like I’m stuck, trapped in a pattern I can’t break out of. No flow, no spark. The same way I’ve been feeling about everything since she left.

I pick up the pen again, trying to shake off the frustration. I need to get this out. I need to move on, but every time I try, it’s like the words slip through my fingers before I can catch them.

I miss you. The words appear before I even think about them. I stare at them, feeling the weight of what I’ve written. It’s the truth, but it’s also a trap. I can’t miss her. I shouldn’t miss her. I cross it out again, my hand pressing harder than I meant to, the ink bleeding into the paper.

This isn’t working.

I throw the pen down and push back from the desk, standing up and pacing the room. The apartment feels too small, the walls too close. My eyes flick to the city outside, the lights steady and constant, unaffected by whatever storm is happening in my head.

I sit back down, determined. I need to finish this. Even if it’s messy. Even if it doesn’t make sense.

Mia Journals About Mark

The room is quiet, a soft glow from the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows on the walls. The warmth of the blankets piled around me feels comforting, but my mind is anything but settled. My journal lies open on the bed, the pen resting on the page, waiting. I’ve been avoiding this moment for too long, but tonight, I can’t ignore it anymore.

I pull my knees up, sitting cross-legged, and pick up the pen. My hand hovers over the page for a second, and I let out a slow breath. Okay. Just write.

The words come faster than I expected.

Mark. I don’t even know where to begin. It feels strange writing your name after all this time. For a while, I thought I could just... move past it. But here I am. Still thinking about you, still trying to make sense of it all.

I pause, staring at the words, feeling them settle. Writing it down makes it real, more real than I’ve been willing to admit. I let the pen move again, my thoughts pouring out onto the page.

We had good times, didn’t we? The road trips, the lazy Sunday mornings, the way you used to make me feel like I was the center of your world. I keep coming back to those moments, trying to remember when it started to change. Maybe it was always changing, and I just didn’t want to see it.

The truth is, I didn’t want to see it. The signs were there, early on—the little lies, the excuses that didn’t quite add up. But I ignored them. I wanted to believe in him, in us. So I buried the doubts, pushed them aside every time they surfaced.

And then you betrayed me. I write the words with more force than I intended, the ink pressing hard into the paper. You lied to me. Over and over. And I let you, because I didn’t want to face the truth. I didn’t want to admit that you weren’t the person I thought you were.

I close my eyes for a moment, the memory of that day crashing back. The messages, the confrontation, the way he tried to explain it away like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

The pen moves more slowly now.

Lucas Continues Writing the Letter

The room feels heavier now, like the air is thicker, harder to breathe. My desk is a battlefield of crumpled drafts, words that didn’t come out right, and sentences I tried too hard to make perfect. The page in front of me is no better—crossed-out lines, ink smudges where my hand dragged across the paper in frustration. I lean back, staring at it, feeling the pressure build again. I should just stop. Walk away, forget the whole thing. But I can’t. Not yet.

I pick up the pen again, my fingers tight around it. Maybe this isn’t about saying the right thing anymore. Maybe it’s about saying something—anything that helps me move on.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and start to write. This time, the words come more easily, not perfect, not poetic, but real.

Jessica,

I don’t even know if you’ll ever read this. And maybe that’s not the point. I guess I’m writing this more for me than for you. Because I need to say these things, even if you never hear them.

I pause, my hand steady for the first time tonight. The tension in my chest eases just a little as I continue.

We had a good run, didn’t we? At least, that’s what I used to think. There were moments I’ll never forget—moments where everything felt right. But there were also moments I ignored, things I didn’t want to see. I wanted it to work so badly that I convinced myself it would, even when it was falling apart.

The pen moves faster now, the words flowing without hesitation.

I think I’ve been holding onto those good memories because they’re easier than facing what really happened. I’ve been holding onto you because it’s easier than letting go. But I can’t do that anymore. I need to move forward, and I think you do too.

I glance up at the sketches scattered across my desk. They’re still the same—rigid, uninspired. I keep trying to design something bold, something new, but all I see are the same old lines, the same patterns I’ve been stuck in for months. I look closer at one of the sketches, and my eye catches something I hadn’t noticed before—a flaw, small but significant. A miscalculation in the structure. It won’t hold if I don’t fix it.

I make a note to come back to it later, but my mind is still tangled in this letter. The flaw is there, waiting for me to deal with it, just like everything else.

I regret a lot of things. I regret not being honest with myself sooner, not seeing the cracks until they were too big to ignore. But I don’t regret us. I don’t regret what we had, even if it wasn’t meant to last.

I stop, reading over the words. They feel true. Raw, but true.

I think it’s time for both of us to move on. I don’t know where that leaves us, but I hope it’s somewhere better than where we’ve been.

The relief is subtle, like the tension loosening just enough for me to breathe a little easier. I’m almost done. I can feel it.

Take care of yourself, Jessica. I’ll do the same.

I sign my name, the ink flowing smoothly as I press the pen into the paper one last time. Lucas.

I set the pen down, staring at the letter, my chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. It’s not perfect. But it doesn’t need to be. It’s done.

The sketches are still there, reminding me that I’ve got work to do, things to fix. But for tonight, this letter was the most important thing to finish.

I fold the paper carefully, sliding it into the envelope. I don’t know if I’ll ever send it. Maybe it’s enough just to have written it. I lean back in my chair, the weight on my shoulders still there, but lighter now.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

I glance at the sketch again, the flaw glaring back at me. I’ll fix it tomorrow.

But tonight, I let go of one burden. And for now, that’s enough.

Mia Continues Journaling

The soft glow from the lamp bathes the room in a warm light, casting long shadows on the walls. My bedroom feels like a cocoon, the outside world quiet, distant, while I sit cross-legged on the bed, my journal open in my lap. The only sound is the occasional rustle of the paper as I turn the page, the pen moving steadily across the lines.

I’ve been writing for what feels like hours, and with every word, I feel something loosening inside me. The weight I’ve been carrying, the knot of emotions tangled up in my chest, is finally starting to unravel. I’ve avoided this for so long but tonight, the words come freely.

Mark hurt me. I know that now. And I know it wasn’t all my fault.

I stop, staring at the sentence. It’s raw, simple, but it’s true. It’s something I’ve needed to acknowledge for a long time. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and keep writing.

I regret ignoring the red flags, pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. I regret letting him have so much control over my happiness. But I can’t regret everything. He taught me things. Hard things, yes, but important things. I know now what I deserve. And I deserve more.

The pen moves faster, almost as if it’s writing for me, letting out all the feelings I’ve been holding back. I write about the anger, the frustration, but also the small, bittersweet moments I don’t hate myself for remembering. The laughter we shared, the comfort of being in someone else’s world, even if it was a fragile one.

Mark is my past. He hurt me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t heal. And it doesn’t mean I’ll let him define my future.

The release is immediate. My chest feels lighter, and the words on the page no longer hold the power they once did. I’m tired, yes, but the kind of tired that comes after a long, hard cry—the kind that feels like a step toward peace.

I glance around the room, at the familiar warmth of the pillows piled on the bed, the soft colors, the little sanctuary I’ve built for myself. This is my space, my refuge. And I’m finally filling it with my own thoughts, not the ghost of someone else’s.

I flip to a fresh page, knowing this will be the last one for tonight. The final passage, the last step in this little journey of words.

I’m ready to move on. I’m ready to let go. I don’t know what’s next, but I know I’ll face it on my own terms. Mark won’t have power over me anymore. Not now, not ever again.

I pause, letting the weight of those words sink in, then close the journal gently, feeling the smooth cover under my fingertips. It’s done. At least for tonight.

I take a deep breath, one that fills me up, and exhale slowly. There’s still a flicker of something at the edge of my thoughts—the secret I’ve kept buried, the part of me that’s still tied to him in ways I don’t fully understand yet. It crosses my mind for just a moment, and I wonder if I’ll ever really be free of it.

But not tonight. Tonight, I’ve done enough. I’ve let go of enough.

I set the journal on the bedside table, turn off the lamp, and settle back against the pillows, pulling the blanket around me. The darkness feels peaceful, not heavy. I feel... lighter. For the first time in months, I feel like I’ve made space for something new.

And that feels like a beginning.

Ollie Shares More About the Promotion

The coffee shop hums with life, the steady rhythm of people coming and going, cups clinking, the low murmur of conversation blending with the soft music in the background. The late afternoon sun pours through the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the table where Ollie and I sit. It’s our usual spot, tucked away from the main crowd, a place that feels familiar, even though everything else feels... off.

Ollie stirs his coffee absently, his gaze flicking between me and the window, like he’s trying to find the right words. “So, about the promotion...”

I glance up from my cup, nodding for him to continue, but my mind is elsewhere. The letter I wrote to Jessica still sits on my desk, sealed in an envelope, waiting. And then there’s that flaw in my designs, the one I noticed just before I folded the letter. It’s been nagging at me ever since, a small thing that could turn into a bigger problem if I don’t address it. But I push those thoughts aside and focus on Ollie, or at least, I try to.

“It’s a big deal, you know?” Ollie’s voice pulls me back into the moment. “They’re offering me a whole new team, bigger responsibilities, the works. But I’d have to move to Seattle. I don’t know anyone there. No friends, no connections.”

He leans back, running a hand through his hair, the uncertainty clear on his face. “It’s a great opportunity, but starting over in a new city... it’s a lot. And the company wants an answer soon. I’ve been thinking about it non-stop.”

I nod again, trying to muster some useful advice. “Yeah, sounds... intense. But, you know, you should follow your gut. If it feels right, go for it.”

Ollie looks at me, his brow furrowing. “Follow my gut?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s all you’ve got? Come on, man. I’m on the fence here. I don’t know if I’m ready for such a huge shift. I mean, what if it’s a mistake?”

I can feel his eyes on me, looking for something more, but my thoughts are tangled. The letter, the design flaw, the weight of everything I haven’t dealt with. I offer a half-hearted smile. “It sounds like a great career move, Ollie. I mean, you’ve been wanting more responsibility, right?”

“Yeah, I have,” he admits, though his voice is quieter now, more reflective. “But it’s not just about the job. It’s about leaving everything behind. Starting from scratch. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

I take a sip of my coffee, the warmth of it doing little to shake the fog in my head. I know he’s looking for reassurance, but I’m not sure I have it in me to give him what he needs right now. My own problems are too loud, too present. I clear my throat, trying to refocus. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Ollie looks out the window, his face thoughtful. “Honestly? My gut’s telling me to go for it. It’s a chance to make something new, something big. But then I think about the people I’d be leaving behind. You know? This place, this... life.” He shrugs. “It’s harder than I thought.”

The sunlight dances across the table, highlighting the tension etched in his expression. He’s torn, and I can see it. But the truth is, I’m not really here. I’m thinking about Jessica, about whether that letter will ever leave my apartment, about the mistake in my designs and what it means if I can’t fix it.

“I think you’ll figure it out,” I say, my voice more distant than I intended. “Just... don’t rush into anything.”

Ollie gives me a sideways glance, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You’re distracted, Lucas. What’s going on with you?”

I wave it off, offering another empty smile. “It’s nothing. Just... a lot on my plate.”

He nods, but I can tell he’s not convinced. “Yeah, well, we’ve both got a lot to figure out, I guess.”

We sit there in silence for a while, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The coffee shop continues to buzz around us, but it feels like we’re stuck, both facing decisions we’re not ready to make.

Ollie leans forward, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. “I need to give them an answer soon. Like, really soon.”

I nod, though the weight of his words doesn’t fully sink in. “You’ll make the right choice.”

But as I say it, I wonder if either of us knows what the right choice really is.

Natalie Receives Another Token from Her Secret Admirer

The office is buzzing with energy, the room bright and alive with fabric swatches, floral samples, and mood boards cluttering every surface. Natural light streams through the windows, casting everything in a warm glow. I’m in my element, balancing contracts in one hand and sketches for an upcoming wedding in the other. There’s something electric about the chaos, the way everything’s falling into place.

As I sift through the mail, sorting bills from vendor updates, a small envelope catches my eye. No return address. Just like the last one. My heart skips a beat, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. I set down the pile of papers and carefully tear open the envelope, my curiosity piqued.

Inside, there’s a delicate charm—a tiny silver star—and a note, handwritten just like before. I hold the charm up to the light, the tiny star catching the sunlight as it twinkles between my fingers. There’s something undeniably sweet about it. Personal.

You bring light into every room you enter. Thank you for making every event shine brighter.

A.

I can’t help but smile, feeling a warmth spread through me. This isn’t just a thank-you note; it’s something more. It feels... intentional. Thoughtful. I run my thumb over the star, the smooth surface cool against my skin, wondering who could be behind it.

“Secret admirer strikes again?” Jenny, my assistant, peeks over my shoulder, a teasing grin plastered across her face.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh, please. It’s probably just a client with a flair for the dramatic.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Clients always send anonymous notes and adorable little charms.” She arches an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. “You’re totally smitten.”

“Smitten? I don’t even know who it is,” I protest, though my cheeks flush with the thought.

Jenny gives me a knowing look. “Well, whoever it is has great taste. And they clearly know how to keep you guessing.”

I tuck the note and the charm into my desk drawer, shutting it softly. The mystery lingers, a gentle thrill that I can’t quite shake. It’s flattering, sure, but there’s more to it now. There’s a spark of something... exciting. I can’t help but wonder who’s behind these tokens, and what might come next.

“Well, until they reveal themselves, I have a wedding to plan,” I say, turning back to my workload with a playful smirk.

Jenny winks at me. “You better be ready for a grand reveal. Mark my words, this admirer is going all in.”

I laugh it off, but as I dive back into the day’s work, the thought sticks with me. Who is A? And why does it feel like they know me better than I think?

The idea stays with me, a quiet hum in the back of my mind, as I move through my day.

Lucas and Mia’s Parallel Paths of Letting Go

The apartment is quiet, the stillness settling around me like a heavy blanket. The dim light from my desk lamp casts long shadows across the room, softening the sharp edges of everything—of the clutter, of the unfinished sketches, of my own thoughts. The letter sits there, sealed, its crisp edges a reminder of everything I’ve just poured onto paper. Everything I’ve decided to leave behind.

I stare at it for a moment longer, the temptation to send it nagging at the back of my mind. Would it change anything? Would hearing from me give Jessica the closure I’ve found in writing this? Maybe. Or maybe it would just tear open wounds I’ve spent months trying to heal.

I reach for the letter, running my fingers along the envelope. It’s heavy, not because of the paper, but because of the weight it carries. But I don’t need to send it. Not anymore. The act of writing it was enough.

With a slow exhale, I open the drawer to my desk and gently place the letter inside. As I close the drawer, the sound is soft, final. I let the silence settle again, my heart feeling lighter, the decision made. I’ve said my piece. And now it’s time to move forward.

----------------------------------------

Across the city, Mia sits in the soft glow of her own apartment, her journal resting closed on the bedside table. The pages are filled with everything she’s been holding onto for too long, the words written in a rush of emotion and reflection. But now, as she sits there, her heart feels calmer than it has in months.

She leans back against the pillows, her eyes drifting shut for a moment as she takes a deep breath, inhaling the peace that comes with finally letting go. The weight of the past is still there, but it’s softer now, easier to carry.

The journal is closed, but it’s more than that. It’s the chapter of her life that she’s chosen to close as well. Mark no longer has a hold on her. Not like he did before.

Mia opens her eyes, glancing at the journal one last time before turning off the light. The room falls into a gentle darkness, quiet and still, like her mind. She smiles to herself, feeling a sense of peace she hasn’t known in a long time.

----------------------------------------

The night outside is calm. It’s the same stillness that echoes in both our hearts, though miles apart. I’ve made my peace, and so has she.

I sit back in my chair, feeling the quiet spread through me, like everything has finally slowed down. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just a simple sense of... being. It’s strange how that happens, how after months of holding on, you let go, and the world keeps spinning, but you feel still for the first time.

Mia, in her apartment, breathes in that same stillness. She lets it fill her up, the knowledge that she’s taken a step forward. There’s more to face, sure. More wounds to heal. But tonight, she’s taken that first step toward something new, something better.

We don’t know it yet, but we’re on parallel paths. Both of us are moving forward, inch by inch, leaving behind the weight of what we thought defined us. The night is quiet, but in that silence, there’s a promise. A promise of something lighter, something that doesn’t come with the weight of the past.

I stand, the drawer shut, the letter tucked away. I’ll never send it, but that’s okay. It’s not about her anymore. It’s about me.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m okay with that.