The café's chatter still echoed in Ethan's ears long after he left. The night was damp, the streetlights hazy with drizzle. He clutched his manuscript tighter to his chest as though it could shield him from the laughter, from the eyes that had looked at him like he was some broken man grasping at ghosts.
He didn't go home. He wandered. Past shuttered bookshops, past glowing restaurant windows where people laughed over wine, past a billboard with Adrian Gray's face plastered across it: The Voice of Our Generation.
The words gutted him.
By the time he reached his apartment, the rain had soaked through his jacket. He kicked the door shut behind him, tossed the manuscript onto the couch, and sank into the silence. For a moment, he thought of Maya — her steady presence, her attempts to anchor him — but he couldn't bring himself to call her. Not tonight.
Instead, he reached for the envelope tucked into his desk drawer.
He slid the folded paper out with trembling fingers. Isabella's handwriting was delicate, looping, like silk unraveling:
> My dearest Ethan,
I know what we share is dangerous, but please believe me — I feel trapped. I cannot leave Adrian so suddenly, not when the world sees us as perfect. But with you, I feel alive again. I promise you, the day will come when I can choose freely. Wait for me. Believe in me.
Always, Isabella.
Ethan pressed the letter to his lips, his eyes burning. He read it once. Twice. A third time. Each word sank deeper, filling the cracks left by the jeers at the café.
"She loves me," he whispered aloud to the empty room, as if the sound of his own voice could make it more real. "She loves me. She just… can't leave yet."
He placed the letter gently on the coffee table, smoothing the creases as though it were fragile glass.
Hours passed. He sat there, staring at it, as though it could sprout wings and carry him away. The rain outside eased into silence, the city dimmed, but he didn't move.
When Maya came by the next morning — letting herself in with the spare key — she found him still there, slumped on the couch, the letter clutched like scripture.
"Ethan," she whispered, kneeling beside him. "What are you doing to yourself?"
He lifted the paper toward her like proof of salvation. "She's going to leave him. Look—she wrote it. She promised."
Maya took the letter, her eyes scanning the ink. Her face tightened, sorrow and frustration colliding. "Ethan… don't you see? These are empty words. She's stringing you along."
"No," Ethan snapped, snatching it back. "You don't understand. She risked everything to write this. This is real, Maya. This is the only thing keeping me—" His voice broke. "—keeping me alive."
Maya's hand hovered near his shoulder, but she didn't touch him. Her voice was soft, almost pleading. "She's not going to leave him. And you're tearing yourself apart waiting for her to do something she never will."
Ethan turned away, clutching the letter to his chest. His jaw tightened. "You should go."
Maya's silence lingered heavy in the room. Finally, she stood, her footsteps quiet as she left. The door clicked shut behind her.
Ethan exhaled a shuddering breath. He unfolded the letter again, tracing the curves of Isabella's handwriting with his fingertip.
"She'll come," he whispered, convincing no one but himself. "She has to."
And with that lie, he folded the letter back into its envelope, tucking it safely into the drawer, where it would wait like a promise that would never be kept.