Adam exhaled sharply. His temples throbbed.
It wasn't just pain—it was disorientation. Guilt. A grief he thought he'd buried.
He had fought so hard to forget Natalia. To erase her from the corners of his life. He wanted to burn all the photos. Avoided cities. Dismantled every reminder piece by piece.
And whatever else he had locked away in the hidden drawer beneath the bookcase.
Letters. More than one. He never threw them away. He couldn't. Because back then, Natalia wasn't just a woman. She was the version of himself he couldn't be.
The room was silent as Adam sat behind his desk, hunched over the letter, breath shallow, fists clenched.
Natalia's handwriting stared up at him from the page. The curves. The slants. The way she looped her Ls and dotted her Is with small, perfect strokes—like every word mattered.
And then—
Her voice.
Not in reality.
But in memory.
"I loved you in every version of us, even the ones I wasn't allowed to show." Natalia's voice echoed in his head.
