Eighteen years.
Gone.
I turned toward the door just as my parents walked in.
“I brought dinner—” my mom started.
“He wrote,” I said.
Everything stopped.
My dad leaned in. “Who?”
“Andrew.”
They read the messages in silence.
Then my dad swore under his breath.
“If I had known…” he muttered. “I would’ve gone to that house myself.”
And just like that, it hit me.
Not just what I lost.
What was taken.
We drove out that evening.
Two counties over. No plan. Just a name and an address.
Gwen opened the door before we knocked.
She had his face.
That nearly broke me.
“Heather?” she asked.
I nodded.
She started crying immediately. “I’m so sorry.”
Then she looked at Leo.
“Oh my God… you look just like him.”
The box was upstairs.
Old. Dusty. Too full.
Letters stacked in bundles. My name written over and over in handwriting I hadn’t seen in eighteen years.
My legs gave out before I could stop myself.
Leo dropped beside me.
I opened the first letter.
I didn’t leave you. I’m trying to come back.
The second:
My mother says you hate me. I don’t believe her.
The third:
If it’s a boy, I hope he laughs like you do.
My hand flew to my mouth.
“Mom…?” Leo whispered.
“He thought I hated him,” I said.
Gwen’s voice shook behind us. “That’s what she told him.”
Another letter.
A birthday card.
Leo opened it with careful hands.
If your mom tells you I loved her, believe her.
The room went completely still.
“And him?” Leo asked quietly.
Gwen hesitated.
“He died,” she said. “Three years ago. Car accident.”
Leo didn’t cry right away.
Neither did I.
It was quieter than that.
He held the box like it might disappear.
I held eighteen years of words I never got to read.
On the drive home, Leo fell asleep in the passenger seat, one hand still resting on the letters.
At a red light, I looked at him.
And for the first time in eighteen years, I understood the truth.
I wasn’t the girl he walked away from.
