Tommy
The walk home was a blur of clenched fists and burning thoughts. Every step thudded with frustration. Emma's mother's voice echoed in my ears, sharp and dismissive, as if I were nothing more than trouble circling their doorstep.
By the time I reached my room, my anger had hardened into something else — desperation. If Emma wouldn't come to me, if her mother wouldn't allow me near, then I'd have to reach her another way.
I pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen, sitting at my desk where my schoolbooks lay untouched. For a moment the words tangled in my throat, too big, too heavy. But then they spilled out — messy, uneven, raw.
I told her how I couldn't stop thinking about her smile, how I replayed the sound of her laugh until it hurt. How every morning felt empty without her, how the woods seemed colder with only me in them.
I wrote that I wished I could change things — that if I could stop what my father was doing, I would. That if I could take away the weight pressing on her family, I'd do it in an instant.
And at the end, when the ink smudged from my hand shaking, I begged. Begged her to meet me in the woods one more time. Even if she wanted to walk away for good, even if all I got was a goodbye. I told her I'd rather lose her honestly than spend the rest of the summer wondering.
When I folded the letter, my chest ached like I'd torn a piece of myself out and trapped it in the paper.
I slipped downstairs, quiet as I could, and raided the pantry. I prepared two sandwiches and wrapped them in brown paper, grabbed a couple of apples, a handful of strawberries, a bottle of juice. It wasn't much, but it was something I could offer.
Holding the bag of food tightly, I slipped into the warm dusk. The houses on our side of the lake were alive with ordinary life — children calling to each other, doors creaking shut, the smell of dinners carried on the breeze. I moved quickly, heart pounding, until I reached her house.
The windows glowed faintly, shadows moving behind the curtains. I crouched, slid the letter through the slot in the door, and stood frozen for a heartbeat, as though she might come running out right then.
But the house stayed silent.
So I turned away, and made for the woods.
The path was familiar, worn smooth by my restless pacing these last few days. The trees closed in, the hush of leaves soft above me, until I reached our spot by the lake.
I spread the little picnic out on the grass — sandwiches, fruit, the bottle of juice set carefully in the middle as though the right arrangement might coax her here.
Then I sat down, knees pulled to my chest, the letter's words echoing in my head. Every creak of a branch, every ripple on the water made my heart leap with hope.
All I could do now was wait.
Emma
I was folding laundry at the kitchen table when I heard the sound — just a soft scrape, the faint clink of metal against wood. I froze, listening. Then the flap of the letterbox settled back into place.
A letter.
I glanced toward the hallway. Mum was upstairs with Zoey, and Dad was still out. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet where even the floorboards seemed to be holding their breath.
I crept to the door. An envelope lay on the mat, my name scrawled across it. My stomach clenched.
I should've left it there. Should've walked away, pretended I hadn't seen. But my fingers shook as I bent and picked it up, tearing it open before I even made it back to the table.
His words spilled out in fancy cursive loops, blotched in places where the ink had run. I read them once, fast, my heart racing, then again slower, letting each sentence press deeper. He wrote about missing me, about how he couldn't bear the silence. About how he wished things were different, that he wished he could stop what was happening, that he would if he could.
And at the end, he begged me to meet him. Even if all I gave him was a goodbye.
Tears pricked my eyes. I pressed the letter against my chest, as if I could hide it inside me, safe from everything else.
I didn't know what I wanted. Part of me wanted to crumple it up and throw it in the bin, pretend I wasn't so weak for him. Pretend my heart didn't leap every time I pictured his face.
But the bigger part — the one that ached every night when I lay awake thinking of him — it wanted to run. Run to him, now, before I lost my chance forever.
I folded the letter carefully, tucking it into my pocket like a secret I couldn't bear to let go. My chest felt tight, my throat thick.
Mum's voice drifted faintly down the stairs, humming something to Zoey. If she saw me leave, she'd never let me go.
So I grabbed my cardigan from the back of the chair, slipped it on, and opened the back door with as little noise as I could manage.
The early evening air wrapped around me, carrying the smell of grass and leaves. My feet found the path almost on their own, each step quicker than the last, until I was running, the trees ahead pulling me in like they'd been waiting.
Waiting for me. Waiting for him.