Kian didn't go to school the next day.
He told his mum he was sick, and maybe he wasn't lying. Grief had settled behind his ribs like smoke, thick and choking. His room was too quiet, too clean. His thoughts wouldn't shut up. The shoebox of letters sat like a weight on his nightstand, untouched since the hospital.
But now, after reading the one Emilia had hidden in her journal, he couldn't stop thinking about the girl he didn't see.
He needed to know more.
He needed to know all of her.
He reached into the box.
The next envelope was pale blue and slightly creased at the edges, like it had been folded and unfolded too many times. The handwriting was smaller now, more fragile. The ink wavered.
The date was late November, only a few weeks before she died.
29 November 2024
Dear Kian,
Some days, I still feel like myself.
I wake up and forget the IV is in my arm. I sit up too fast, try to brush my hair like it still falls the way it used to. I crack a joke with the nurse and pretend I'm just here for something stupid, like a sprained ankle or a stubborn flu.
But most days… I don't feel like a person anymore.
I feel like a ghost trapped in someone else's skin. A shadow of a girl who used to be full of fire and comebacks and late-night playlists.
My body is thinning. My skin is paper. My hair is mostly gone.
And when I look in the mirror, I don't see me.
I see a countdown. A slow, quiet disappearing act.
I know you haven't seen me like this. I made sure of it.
But part of me wonders if you would've stayed.
If you could love someone turning to smoke.
Sometimes I try to hold onto the girl I used to be.
The one who dared you to sing at karaoke, who ate four slices of pizza without guilt, who ran barefoot down the pier yelling at seagulls like a maniac.
I miss her.
I hope you do too.
Because soon…
I think all that'll be left of her is these letters.
Love,
Emilia
Kian didn't realize he was crying until the tears reached his neck. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, like he could hold himself together physically if he just tried hard enough.
"Would you have stayed?"
The question rang louder than anything else.
He wanted to scream yes.
But some small, guilty part of him wasn't sure. And that was worse.
******************************************************
The next day, he went back to school.
The halls buzzed like nothing had happened, like the world didn't notice one of its brightest lights had gone out. People passed him in waves. Laughed too loud. Shoved lockers closed. It made his skin itch.
He couldn't breathe.
He ducked out of the building and wandered toward the courtyard, to the old fig tree he and Emilia used to sit beneath during lunch on warm days. It was brittle now, stripped of its leaves, branches curling like bones into the sky.
He sat down and unfolded the letter again.
Let every line bruise him.
A ghost trapped in someone else's skin.
A slow, quiet disappearing act.
Would you have stayed?
And here he was, after.
Loving her too late.
Understanding too late.
Had he really known her?
Or had he only ever loved the version of her that smiled for him?
He leaned back against the tree and whispered, "I miss her."
Then quieter: "I miss the version I never knew."