Free

Chapter 48

FORTY-EIGHT

Nick

The box is heavier than I remember.

It’s just a simple shoebox, tucked into the back of my closet for years, but carrying it now feels like holding a piece of my soul. The edges are scuffed, the lid slightly warped from being opened and closed more times than I can count. Inside are pieces of me I never intended anyone to see—letters I wrote to Charlie during the years we were apart, when I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how much she meant to me. Letters I never thought I’d share.

But things are different now.

I’m different now.

I find Charlie in the living room, curled up on the couch with Sunshine sprawled across her lap. She’s reading, one hand absentmindedly stroking the dog’s fur. She looks up as I approach, her smile immediate and radiant.

“Hey,” she says, closing her book and sitting up. Sunshine groans at being displaced but doesn’t move far, settling against Charlie’s thigh. “What’s that?”

I take a deep breath, setting the box on the coffee table in front of her. “Something I’ve been holding onto for a long time. Something I think it’s time for you to see.”

Her brow furrows, curiosity flickering across her face. “What is it?”

I sit beside her, close enough that our knees touch. My hands rest on the box, fingers tracing the worn edges. “Letters. I wrote them to, uh, to you… over the years. Mostly after the accident. Some from before. I never sent them because they say all the things I was afraid to tell you. Everything I should have said from the start.”

Charlie’s eyes widen, her lips parting in surprise. She glances at the box, then back at me. “Nick…”

“I want you to read them,” I say, my voice steady but my chest tight. “Not because I want to dredge up the past, but because I want you to understand. To know how much you’ve always meant to me, even when I couldn’t say it out loud.”

Her hand covers mine, warm and steady. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

She opens the box slowly, like it holds something precious and fragile. Inside, the letters are neatly stacked, some on plain notebook paper, others on stationery I stole from my barracks. A few are on scraps of whatever I could find—a napkin, the back of a receipt, the margins of a map. They’re worn and creased, evidence of the countless times I read and reread them, editing in my head, wondering what she’d think if she ever saw them.

Charlie picks up the first letter, her fingers trembling slightly. She glances at me one last time, her eyes searching mine for reassurance. I nod again, and she unfolds the paper.

The room falls silent except for the sound of her breathing and the faint rustle of the pages as she reads. I watch her face, every shift in expression a new stab of vulnerability. Sometimes she smiles softly; other times her lips press together, her brows knitting in a way that makes my stomach twist.

When she reaches one of the more recent letters, her eyes shine with unshed tears. Her voice is quiet as she reads aloud:

Dear Charlie,

I dreamt about you last night. It was a long hard day and I expected it to be a long hard night, but there you were, making all of it a little better. You were walking by the pier, your hair blowing in the wind, and you looked… happy. God, you were so beautiful, and for a second, I let myself believe that you could still be mine. But then I remembered why I let you go, and the weight of it came crashing down all over again.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell you this in person, but I need you to know…

I’ve never stopped loving you.

Not for a second.

Letting you go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I know in my heart it was the right thing.

I hope you’re happy, Charlie. I hope you’ve found someone who looks at you the way I wish I could. Someone who doesn’t see their scars as a burden you have to carry. You deserve that. You deserve the world.

Always,

Nick

Her voice falters on the last line, and she sets the letter down, wiping at her cheeks. “Nick…” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “How long have you been holding onto these?”

“Since the day I wrote the first one,” I admit, my throat tight. “And I meant every word. I still do.”

Charlie turns to me, her eyes shining with tears but filled with something else, too—something fierce and unyielding. “You didn’t have to be perfect for me,” she says. “You didn’t have to protect me from your pain. All I ever wanted was you. Just you.”

“I know that now,” I say, my voice breaking.

She reaches for me, her hands framing my face, her touch gentle but firm. “Maybe we needed to lose each other to find ourselves. As Mom loves to say, The Universe has a way of making things work.”

Her words break something open inside me, and I pull her into my arms, holding her like she’s the only thing keeping me grounded. I’ve fought that idea, bristled at it, even contradicted the poor woman to her face on the topic, but now, after everything Charlie and I have been through, I’m forced to confront the truth. If every hard thing I went through was designed to bring me to this, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

When we finally pull apart, she picks up another letter, her smile soft but mischievous. “I think I’d like to read the rest of these.”

“Take your time,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “They’re yours, after all.”

And as she starts reading again, her laughter mingling with the occasional sniffle, I realize that sharing these letters—the pieces of myself I thought I’d lost forever—isn’t the terrifying thing I imagined it would be.

It’s freedom.

It’s healing.

It’s love.