Oryn sat in his apartment, staring at the single sheet of paper in front of him. The ink had dried hours ago, but he hadn't moved. The words stared back at him, silent and unchanging.
He had written it.
The final letter.
The one where he had asked her to meet him.
And then he hadn't shown up.
The clock on the wall ticked softly, a reminder of all the hours that had slipped past. 9 PM had come and gone. He hadn't gone to the café. He hadn't seen her. He hadn't—
His hands clenched.
He wanted to believe he had a choice, that there had been another way. But when Romy had called, voice urgent, practically begging him to come, he hadn't even hesitated.
Some things weren't about choices.
Some things were just consequences waiting to happen.
The letter still sat open in front of him.
He wondered if she had waited.
If she had read his words, traced the ink with her fingertips, and smiled, just for a moment, before she realized he wasn't coming.
He wondered how long she had stayed.
If she had looked at the door every time it opened, hoping—
His throat tightened.
Maybe it was better this way.
Maybe it was better she never knew his name.