I shut the door behind me and sit on the side of my bed, where my wet coat is pooled at my feet. It seems like the loft is too quiet; every breath I take seems to bounce off the pale walls. I sink down to the floor with my back against the bed frame and allow my eyes move to the stack of yellowed paper on my desk. A faded picture of us smiling under cherry blossoms is somewhere deep in my pocket. Rowan gave it to me at the bridge. The picture seems like a piece of someone else's life. I pull it free and hold it in my hand, my eyes following the jagged edges he cut as he saved it from the rain.
The rain keeps hitting the ceiling, a continuous lullaby that hurts my heart. I hold the picture to my chest and breathe in the smell of damp earth and sandalwood—his smell, which lingers like a ghost. My fingers are shaking. I want to set the picture on fire. I want to sew it to my chest and let it bleed. I put it in the drawer and shut it tight instead, as if that would keep the memories inside.
I need to write tonight in the dark light of the loft's only lamp. I need to let out everything I've been holding in for nine years: every regret, every pain, and every wish. I need to tell Rowan all the things I didn't say at the bridge. And maybe I can find a little freedom in writing.
I get up and walk to the counter. The stationery is waiting: hefty cream sheets with edges that are somewhat torn. I take one off the top and turn it over. My pen is already open. I hold it, the tip just over the paper, and my chest tightens. I take a breath and let the ink touch the page.
Dear Rowan,
This letter began its existence as a confession hurled to you in the rain—smudged, ripped, abandoned. Tonight, I regain it.
My chest raises and lowers unevenly. I press harder to type the next line, bending the words through a tremble I can't suppress.
I could feel every drop of rain on my skin the night I left you at the café door. As I ran away, I could taste the salt in my tears. I thought fleeing would help me get away from the deception of our marriage and the empty shells we wore for Clarissa and Dad. But freedom is a storm that is even worse.
The pen shakes in my palm. I close my eyes for a while and remember how much colder the world was without him. The wind blew across my hair as I walked along the street. The pain in my chest as I got into a taxi, determined to get rid of him. Every recollection makes my skin itch. I open my eyes and make myself keep writing.
For nine years, I've been hiding my worth behind guilt and quiet. You thought I deserved nothing more than what I gave you: a night of stolen kisses, a marriage neither of us wanted, and then I disappeared. You wore your duty like armor. I tried to forget that love turned become duty.
I stop and take a deep breath. The loft is quiet, save for the rain and the sound of the refrigerator in the kitchenette. I hold the pen tightly till the nib digs into the paper. I close my eyes and breathe, hoping the shaking will stop.
When I got to the bridge, I was full of hope and a moment of naive bravery. I felt that telling you the truth would set us both free. But seeing Clarissa there, with her face hollowed by treachery, made me understand how many hearts I had destroyed. I couldn't be the one to break hers as well.
My throat is getting tighter. I swallow and then press the pen to the paper again.
I never wanted to be a shadow in your life. Every morning, I wake up and feel the pain of missing what we may have become. I know you married her out of duty and never selected me. But when it's calm and I think of the maple leaves above me, I feel you choosing me for a moment.
I stop and feel the paper billow as a breeze comes through the cracked window in the attic. I look up at the city lights far below. The clouds make them less bright. Each light is a narrative I'll never know, and each shade is a mystery we still have.
I sometimes wonder if I really deserve your affection. Yes and no are written on me like scars. I should be loved for who I am, not for the evil I did. But I still wonder if my sin made me unworthy.
Tears make it hard for me to see. I touch my cheek with my hand, smear ink on my fingers, and keep going.
I want to tell you that I forgive you tonight. I forgive you for signing those papers without missing me and for staying in a marriage based on my lies. And I forgive myself. I'm not a foolish penitent hiding behind guilt anymore.
I put the pen down and take a deep breath, letting the words sink in. The tears come quickly. I dab at them with my sleeve, then pick up the pen again, battling the impulse to rip the letter into pieces and bury it in the courtyard.
I can't promise that I won't miss you every day or that I'll forget the past. But if you ever wonder what could have been, read these words and remember myself standing among the cherry blossoms, barefoot, shaking, and sure of my love.
My hand shakes. I remember how his name, Rowan, looked when it was written. I push his name onto the paper and feel the ink sink in like blood.
I'll send this. Or I might not. I want you to read it so you can see my truth without any filters or guards. But if I submit it, I might ruin all I've worked so hard to fix. These words will perish with me if I don't.
I drop the pen and close my eyes. The noise wakes me up. It looks like the lamp is too bright. I grab my cold, stale coffee mug and take a sip. It tastes like burnt wood.
I look out the window. The rain has turned into a light drizzle. There are streetlights shining down. When I told Rowan at the bridge, I could see amazement, hurt, and longing on her face. There were so many feelings in one look. I think about how Clarissa betrayed me. The letter shakes in my hand.
I get up and walk to the window, holding the letter between two fingers. I put it in an ivory-colored envelope, fold the flap shut, and look at it as if it may set me on fire. A branch outside taps on the window lightly and steadily.
My phone is buzzing in my pocket. I take it out and see that it's a text from Amanda. Mr. Hart: Mr. Bennett needs to talk to you right away. Are you at work? I close my eyes tightly. Rowan must have told his dad that he wasn't going to the gala tonight. I put the phone back in my pocket, but no one answers.
I go back to my workstation. The light from the lamp pools on the envelope. I hold it over the trash can. I see it landing there, unread and not needed. But I can't help it; a part of me needs him to read these words.
My phone buzzes again. Someone is calling me from "Unknown." I think for a second, then swipe to answer.
"Mr. Hart." My voice breaks, so I clear my throat.
"Rowan"? I can hear my buddy Sara's voice crackling. I blink. I neglected to text her after the bridge. "Hey."
"I tried to call for hours!" She sounds like she's going crazy. "Are you okay?" I heard you called off tonight. "I thought something had happened."
I shut my eyes. "I had to deal with something private."
She lets out a sigh. "Hey, I'm just worried. You sounded so different the last time we talked. Isla, is she okay?
My chest feels tight. How much should I tell Sara? "We're working things out."
"Hey, I'm here if you need me." I was at the bridge earlier and saw Clarissa rush away toward the city. After that, I saw you and Isla and something happened. "Are you sure you don't want me to come over?"
I swallow. "Thanks for that. But I need to be alone tonight.
She stops for a second. "Okay. Just know that I'm only a phone call away.
I breathe out. "Thanks, Sara."
I hang up and lean back, my heart racing. Sara has been my rock through every bad choice and every heartbreak since college. But I didn't call her. I knew that if she saw me now, troubled and raw, she would say that I was better off without Rowan. And a part of me wants her to be correct. But a part of me doesn't.
I move my chair back and forth. The envelope is heavy on the desk. I look at the clock and see that it's 7:14 p.m. I have a few hours before the mailman comes tomorrow. The time to let things go is running out.
I take the letter out of the envelope and put it back on the desk. I read it again, my words piercing with regret. I follow the ink smudge in the corner where tears made my signature look like it was written in a hurry. I take a deep breath and get ready.
Someone knocking on the door makes me jump. My heart beats faster in my chest. I put the letter down and walk over to the peephole. It's one of the building super's helpers, Marta. She's wearing a faded flannel shirt and holding a clipboard.
I open the door just a little bit. She speaks softly. "Ms. Bennett, Mr. Alvarez wants you to sign for this package." She holds out a little, taped-up box with no writing on it.
I nod and put on my slippers before entering into the hall. "Thanks." I sign, grab the box, and shut the door. Her footsteps fade away down the hall.
I shake the box in my hands. There is no label or return address. I put it on the bed and kneel down in front of it. With my thumbnail, I slide the tape and pull back the flaps. Inside, there is a plain cardboard box with a glass jar and a lid that is sealed. I take it out: a jar of beautiful, golden sand. There is a small piece of paper at the bottom that is knotted with twine.
I can't breathe. I lift the lid. The sand covers the scroll. I carefully pull it out and untie the string. I take out the note, and my hands are shaking.
Isla,
Keep this in mind: sand goes through your fingers until you grasp on with both hands. These grains are like your memories: valuable yet easy to break. Don't let the breezes take them away.
—R
My hands are going numb. Rowan's writing. He didn't write this here; someone else had to duplicate it. But the feeling is a cry not to let memories go away. It hurts me.
I put the jar down and look at the mail on the desk that hasn't been opened yet. My words are true. Rowing against the flow of dread. I fold the letter and put it in my purse. I get up, walk across the loft, and look out the window. A veil of rain makes the city lights twinkle.
I put my forehead against the glass. I picture Rowan reading the letter, her eyes shining and her chest rising and falling. I can see Clarissa finding it, becoming angry, and crying. The world I knew would blow up.
A flood of fear washes over me. I take a step back, my heart racing. I can't do this. I can't let go of the past. I can't shatter it all.
My phone buzzes again with a text from "Unknown": I'll pick that up tomorrow. Don't send anything tonight.
I can't breathe. He's watching me to keep me safe? To boss me around? I put the note deeper into my handbag. I write down my expenses, grocery lists, and leftover takeout in a logbook. My thumb is over it. I write my name at the top: Isla Bennett. I can hardly recognize her at times like these.
Once more, the phone buzzes: Come see me. 12:00 p.m. My work space.
My heart beats fast. The office was his whole universe. He wants me to be on his side. A part of me pulls back. I can't go back there because I can't face his father or Clarissa in fluorescent lights. But I also want to fight. I want answers. I truly want to see him, beyond duty and regret.
I fall into the bed, with a jar of sand next to me and a letter in my bag. The light from the bulb makes a pool around me, like an island in the dark. Memories come and go in my head—laughter from far away under spring sky, confessions drenched in rain, and betrayal at the bridge.
I shut my eyes. I don't know whether to mail the letter that could set us free or let it die here, unopened. I can't decide whether to forgive myself or hold onto my guilt as proof of my worth.
I hold the jar of sand up to the light. The grains fall out of my hand, golden and wild. I hold them in my hands and feel how heavy they are. They slip through my fingers and fall to the floor. I close my fist and hope they stay, but they slip away in a shower of light.
Grief turns into determination. I put the sand back in my hand and hold it close. I grasp it tighter, and for the first time, I know I won't let go.
I will meet him tomorrow. We'll confront our fears together. And maybe, just maybe, the letter I never sent may finally have a reason to exist. The truth could finally be able to set me free.
I let the sand go. It slips through my fingers and collects on the flooring. I stand up, rub my hands together, and switch out the light.
The loft is dark. The rain is drumming on the roof. I get into bed with the letter heavy in my purse. In the dark, I hear the wind say, "Hold on with both hands."
And I shut my eyes, holding on to the weak spark of hope that I almost forgot.