It had been three years since Cal last heard Lacy's voice. Three years since he walked away under a sky that once felt like theirs.
He never looked back.
Until now.
The city was colder than he remembered. Sharper, louder. But somehow, that afternoon—when he spotted Lacy on the other side of the street—it all went quiet.
Lacy was standing outside a bookstore, a coffee in hand, earphones on. He didn't see Cal. But Cal saw everything. The way Lacy had grown into his face, lost a bit of the boyish roundness. The way he was still a little messy. Still wearing mismatched socks.
Cal almost crossed the street. Almost said something.
But he didn't.
Instead, he walked into the bookstore. Bought a small leather notebook. And wrote.
Dear Lacy,
I saw you today.
You didn't see me, which I guess is fair. I've been trying not to be seen for a long time.
I thought I was over everything. Over you. Maybe I am. Maybe not. But seeing you brought back a version of myself I thought I buried. A boy who believed in stars. A boy who thought silence could save him.
Do you remember that night I confessed? Of course you do. It's probably burned into both our memories like a scar.
I didn't want to break your heart. I only wanted to protect mine. But I also want you to know something I never said. You were the first person I loved. Not just loved, trusted. Not because I wanted something from you. But because you made life feel lighter. Because you listened. Because you stayed… until I couldn't.
I know now that what I felt wasn't wrong. It was just misplaced. You weren't mine to love that way—but that doesn't make what I felt less real.
I hope you're okay. I hope you've found someone you can talk to at night. Someone who makes the world quieter.
I'm not angry anymore. I don't regret anything.
You mattered. You still do.
Goodbye, Lacy.
—Cal
He ripped the letter out, folded it, and slipped it into the bookstore's copy of The Little Prince. He remembered Lacy once said he hated the book because he didn't understand it. "Why would the prince leave the fox?" he'd asked.
Now Cal knew the answer.
A week later, Lacy walked into that same bookstore.
He wasn't looking for a book. He just needed somewhere to be.
Something made him pick up The Little Prince. He opened it. And the letter fell out.
The handwriting stopped him cold.
He read it once. Then again.
And when he walked out, he didn't take the book.
But he kept the letter in his coat pocket, over his chest.
They didn't meet again. Not for a long time.
But every once in a while, on quiet nights, Lacy would look up at the stars and whisper,
"I still don't get why the prince left."
And somewhere, miles away, Cal would smile sadly and whisper back,
"Because he had to."