Hazel stood in the living room doorway, the bundle of letters still pressed against her chest.
Adrian looked up from the couch. His eyes met hers, unreadable as always—but this time, something shifted.
She stepped closer, the silence stretching taut between them.
"I found these," she said softly, holding out the stack.
His gaze dropped to the letters.
He didn't move.
Didn't reach for them.
Just stared.
"I didn't read them," she added quickly. "I just… saw they weren't opened. Not a single one."
Adrian said nothing.
Hazel waited, hoping he would speak. Explain. Laugh. Cry. Anything.
But his lips stayed shut. His jaw clenched ever so slightly.
She swallowed. "She tried, didn't she? Erin. She tried to talk to you."
Still no reply.
Hazel stepped forward again. "Were you even listening back then? Did you even want to hear her?"
That flicker of something—guilt, maybe—passed through his expression, but he masked it too quickly.
Hazel's voice dropped, but it was sharper now. "She might've been difficult. Maybe selfish. But she wasn't silent."
Adrian blinked.
The letters trembled in her hand.
"You were."
That landed.
His eyes closed for the briefest second, lashes brushing his cheek.
Hazel set the letters down on the coffee table. Gently. Like they might shatter.
"I don't know who you married," she whispered. "But it's starting to feel like neither of you ever really knew each other."
She turned to walk away.
Then stopped.
"Do you… do you still miss her?" she asked.
The question hung between them, fragile as spun glass.
Adrian opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Hazel's shoulders slumped. "Right. Of course."
She started back toward the hallway.
"Hazel."
His voice was low, but it cracked in the middle like a dry twig snapping.
She turned slowly.
Adrian stood now, just behind the couch. His hands hung at his sides, helpless.
"I didn't… mean for it to be this way," he said.
That was all.
But it was more than he'd ever given her before.
Hazel nodded once. Not angry. Just… tired.
"I know," she said.
And then she left the letters, and him, behind.
⸻
The next morning, Hazel didn't feel like herself.
Or Erin.
She felt like someone in between. Someone floating.
Adrian was already gone when she entered the kitchen. The coffee was still warm in the pot. A slice of toast sat uneaten on the counter.
And beside it… a single letter.
Unsealed.
Her heart jumped.
She picked it up. Recognized her own handwriting—Hazel's, not Erin's.
It was the note she'd tucked into his briefcase weeks ago, back when she still thought kindness could rebuild anything.
He'd read it.
And left it there, for her to find.
No words. No explanations.
Just this quiet, cracked mirror of two people trying to find something in the pieces.
Hazel clutched the letter, suddenly unsure whether she wanted to cry… or hope.