It had been almost a year since Rey stepped into the outside world as "R"—the faceless writer whose story now filled thousands of bookshelves and the hearts of readers who had once been broken.
He had started to accept his current life.
He wrote books, lent his voice to various literacy projects, and occasionally mentored young writers—those who were writing from the quietest, most painful places in their lives.
---
Until one day, the foundation invited him to join a new program:
> "Writing to Heal"
A small workshop for people trying to recover through writing.
Rey initially declined.
But after reading the list of participants and the program's description, something shifted in him.
> "There's nothing more healing than helping someone else heal," said one of the foundation staff.
And so, Rey agreed. He would teach two sessions. No identity reveal.
Just "Coach R."
---
The first day of the workshop.
Rey arrived early, sitting in the small classroom with twelve chairs.
One by one, the participants entered—young people with empty gazes, slouched shoulders, and eyes carrying unspeakable weight.
Then, a girl walked in. About eighteen. Petite. Her hair tied in a simple ponytail. A clean face, but hollow eyes.
The staff took her name.
Rey almost dropped his pen when he heard:
> "Full name: Aurelina."
"Nickname: Aurel."
---
For a moment, Rey's chest tightened.
Aurel.
The name hit him like a crashing wave—reopening rooms inside him he had locked away with prayers, writing, and silence.
But this girl was not that Aurel.
She was new. Young. Still wounded.
But her name alone was enough to shake Rey from within.
---
The first session began.
Rey tried to stay focused. He shared about writing from pain—not as a weapon, but as a way to reach the parts of ourselves still waiting to be heard.
The room was silent.
Then the teenage Aurel raised her hand.
> "What if the pain comes from someone who never apologized, Coach?" she asked.
"Can writing really make that pain go away?"
Rey paused.
In his mind, the image of the Aurel he once loved appeared—
Her smile. Her voice. Her eyes, the last time she looked at him at the gate and said,
> "I'm sorry, Rey… my life is no longer yours."
---
At last, Rey replied.
> "Writing isn't for forgetting," he said softly.
"It's to let ourselves stop holding tightly onto things that can never happen again."
The young Aurel lowered her head. Her eyes glistened.
---
In the second session, the participants were asked to write a letter to the person who hurt them most.
The letters were submitted anonymously.
That night, in his modest room, Rey read them one by one.
Until he came across one letter—
The paper was crumpled. The handwriting neat. But the words sliced deep:
> "To the one who left without saying why…
You made me hate loving.
I want to be angry. But all I feel is longing.
Longing with no place to return to."
> "I'm not a strong girl.
I'm just a girl who doesn't know how to stop waiting."
Rey closed the letter.
His eyes burned. His hands trembled.
Because even if the letter wasn't for him…
The words sounded just like her voice.
Like the Aurel he used to know.
---
The next day, after the session ended, the young Aurel approached him.
> "Coach," she said quietly. "I wrote that letter you read last night…"
Rey looked at her, steadying himself.
> "It was a good letter," he said
Aurel nodded.
> "I wrote it because I don't know how to hate him.
But I also can't forgive him."
Then she gave a small, tired smile.
> "Sometimes I want him to read it.
But I'm also scared… that he won't feel guilty at all."
Rey answered in a low voice:
> "Sometimes we write not so they'll read it…
But so our hearts can stop waiting for a reply that will never come."
---
Aurel smiled.
And before she walked away, she said:
> "Thank you, Coach R.
Because now I know…
I'm not alone in a pain that never really ends."
---
That night, Rey opened his laptop.
His second book was still empty.
But this time, he wasn't writing about the Aurel from his past.
He was writing about the Aurel of today—the teenage girl learning to make peace with her pain.
And on the first page, he wrote:
> "Maybe love doesn't need to be won or possessed.
Maybe it's meant to be passed on…
as strength, so others don't give up."