The car ride back to the hotel was quiet, except for the faint hum of city traffic and the rhythmic clicking of Lila's nails against her phone. She was scrolling through photos from the signing, her usual post-event glow lighting up the backseat.
"You killed it again, Ames," she said finally, grinning as she turned the screen toward me. "Look at this crowd. I swear, every stop just keeps getting bigger."
I smiled weakly. "Guess people like heartbreak."
Lila laughed, not catching the bitterness beneath my words. "They like honesty. There's a difference." She paused, leaning her head back. "You really don't see how much your words mean to people, do you?"
I stared out the window, watching the streaks of light blur against the rain-slick glass. "Maybe I just don't like remembering what inspired them."
She gave me a look, the kind that always made me feel seen. But then she sighed and let it go, returning to her phone. Lila was smart like that. She knew when to push, and when to give me space to drown quietly in my own thoughts.
We'd been friends since college, since the days when I was still learning to speak up, to let people hear the voice I'd spent so long burying. Lila had met me when I was already becoming someone else: confident, composed, the version of me I'd built to survive. She'd never known the shy girl who used to hide her words behind notebook pages.
The car slowed to a stop outside the hotel. The drizzle had turned into a steady mist, curling in the glow of the streetlights. Lila gathered her bag and looked at me again.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked softly. "You've been… off lately."
"I'm just tired."
It was the truth, but not the whole of it. I was tired.... just not from work.
She didn't believe me, not entirely, but she didn't push. "Okay," she said finally. "But promise me you'll actually sleep tonight, not write until 3 a.m. again."
"I'll try."
She laughed and looped her arm through mine as we walked through the lobby. "You always say that."
The hotel room felt too big once she left.
I changed into an old sweatshirt, let my hair down and sank onto the edge of the bed. My signing pen sat on the nightstand, beside an untouched cup of herbal tea Lila had made before heading to her own room.
I picked up my phone, scrolling through the photos she'd posted on the official account. Me smiling, laughing, signing books. My public self. The version of me everyone thought they knew.
Then I paused.
In one of the photos, the crowd behind me blurred in soft focus. And there, near the back, was a familiar shape.
Black jacket. Messy dark hair. Head slightly tilted.
Ryder.
Even through the blur, I knew. My breath caught somewhere between disbelief and inevitability.
So he'd really come. Again.
I set the phone down, pressing my palms against my face. What was I supposed to do with this? Pretend it hadn't happened? Pretend he wasn't out there reading my words, dissecting every page for proof of us?
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent years turning him into fiction, and now he'd walked straight out of it, calm, steady, impossibly real.
My reflection in the mirror across the room stared back, eyes shadowed, freckles more visible without makeup, hair spilling loose around my face. The confident author everyone saw at signings wasn't here. Just me. The girl who'd once stayed up late writing about a boy she could never have.
I picked up the hotel notepad and a pen, an old habit. Writing always felt safer than speaking.
You shouldn't have come.
The words sat heavy on the paper.
I stared at them, then added, almost against my will:
But I knew you would.
My hand hovered, pen trembling. I didn't even know if I was angry at him or at myself. For writing the truth. For hoping he'd recognize it. For pretending I didn't want him to.
The room was silent except for the faint hum of rain against the window. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time I'd seen him before all this, before the signings, before the distance. It had been graduation day. He'd signed my yearbook with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Don't stop writing.
He'd written.
You've got something worth saying.
He hadn't known then that everything I'd write would circle back to him.
I tore the note from the pad and stared at it for a moment before crumpling it in my fist. The sound felt louder than it should have. I tossed it into the wastebasket and tried to ignore the ache that followed.
I opened my laptop next, more out of habit than purpose. My inbox blinked with new messages—event schedules, interview requests, nothing that mattered. But one name stood out near the top.
A message from the bookstore manager.
Hi Amelia,Thanks again for today's event. It was a great turnout. One of the attendees left this for you at the counter. Said you'd know what it meant. I'll forward it with the next batch of mail.
I frowned, rereading the line. My pulse picked up.
He'd left something.
I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. I didn't know whether to dread it or crave it.
Maybe it was a letter. Maybe it was just closure.Maybe it was both.
I shut the laptop, unable to look anymore.
Outside, the rain kept falling in steady, unbroken rhythm. I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying his voice over and over in my head.You really thought I wouldn't recognize myself, didn't you?
I pressed my palms against my eyes until the darkness brightened with color.
"I didn't think you'd still care," I whispered to no one.
And maybe that was the truth I hadn't written. The one that still hurt to say.