Paul sat at the edge of his bed, pen in hand, paper spread across his lap. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a dying lamp. He hadn't written anything in years. Not since the scholarship scam. Not since he'd walked away from Joey.
But tonight, he needed to speak. Even if she never read it.
He began slowly.
> Joey,
> I don't know how to begin. I've started this letter a hundred times, and each time I fail. Because how do you explain abandoning someone you love? How do you justify silence?
He paused, staring at the ink bleeding into the paper.
> I was scammed. The scholarship was fake. I gave everything—money, trust, hope—and ended up with nothing. I was ashamed. Not just of being fooled, but of being weak. I thought leaving would protect you from my failure. I thought disappearing would be cleaner.
He exhaled, the weight of memory pressing down.
> But I was wrong. I didn't protect you. I hurt you. I made you question your worth, your love, your truth. And for that, I'm sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.
He stood and paced the room, then sat again.
> I've been in therapy. Trying to understand why I run. Why I sabotage. Why I couldn't say goodbye properly. My therapist says I have abandonment issues. That I fear intimacy. That I confuse love with obligation.
> But you were never an obligation. You were light. You were laughter. You were the only thing that felt real in a world that kept lying to me.
Paul's hand trembled as he wrote.
> I'm not asking for forgiveness. I don't deserve it. I'm not asking for another chance. I wouldn't know what to do with it. I'm just asking you to know the truth. To know that I loved you. That I still do. That I'm trying to be better.
He signed the letter and folded it carefully.
He stared at the envelope for a long time.
Then he walked outside, lit a match, and watched the paper burn.
The flames danced, devouring his words, his guilt, his hope.
He whispered, "I understand," as the last ember faded.
And for the first time in years, he felt free.