February

Prologue

I wasn't looking for love when I found him. I was looking for gas.

The wind bit cold that day, slicing through my gloves as I pulled into the rest stop off the mountain highway. My bike sputtered to a near-empty stop, and I cursed under my breath. Then, I heard laughter behind me.

"You really ride that thing dry, huh?" a voice teased.

I turned. And there he was. Helmet tucked under his arm, grease stained on his knuckles, that grin of his, half-amused, half-sheepish, but always somehow irresistible.

Arlo.

It started with a gas can. Then a ride. Then a race. Then a hundred sunsets on winding roads, laughter echoing across cliffs, campfires, near-death experiences, midnight ramen, and playlists only we understood.

He made my world feel bigger, louder. But also quieter in all the right places.

We moved in together a year later. Our tiny apartment was a mix of my anime sketches and his motorcycle posters.

We bickered over the smallest things—coffee strength, laundry, the temperature of the air conditioner, but it felt like home.

I thought, I knew, we had something real.

Until the accident. Until the letters... ..

The hospital was white noise.

"He'll be fine," the doctor assured me. A few fractured ribs, a sprained wrist, a cut above his eyebrow.

"Lucky," they said. I nodded, trying to convince myself I believed them.

I called everyone, his family, who had been distant for years, and his close friends who seemed to understand him in ways his family never did.

Milo, Levi, the guys who had always been there for him.

I waited until he woke. His eyes fluttered open, groggy, cracked-lipped, but still with that smile.

Arlo's voice was raspy, but the grin on his face made my heart race in that familiar way. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he muttered, his eyes squinting at me.

I bit my lip, fighting back the wave of emotions. "I thought... I thought I was going to lose you."

His hand reached for mine, fingers brushing weakly. "You didn't. You're stuck with me." His smile softened, but I could see the exhaustion behind his eyes.

I tried to breathe through the tightness in my chest, the overwhelming relief that now seemed to break me apart. "I... I don't know what I'd do if—"

"Shhh," he interrupted gently, squeezing my hand. "Don't think like that. I'm here. I'm okay." I kissed his forehead, tucked the blanket around him, and whispered I'd be back soon. Just going home for a few things. Pajamas. His favorite hoodie. That cinnamon lip balm he always swiped from me.

I didn't mean to open the drawer. I was just grabbing socks. But there they were. A pile of letters, neat and hidden beneath his underwear, as if buried under something mundane. Each one labeled in the same handwriting: To My Love.

At first, I smiled, thinking maybe they were for me. Maybe a romantic surprise, something he never got the chance to give.

Then I opened one.

June 12th

You smiled at me across the garage today, and I swear something inside me moved. Something that made me want to build a life with you.

August 4th

You talk in your sleep. Did you know that? Last night, you whispered my name like it was a prayer. I wanted to kiss you awake.

December 25th

It's Christmas, and you're gone. The only gift I want is the sound of your keys in the door. The way you always left them by the table, and I'd know you were home, safe.

March 9th

Everyone says move on. I tried. I even met someone new. She's kind. Funny. She rides. But she's not you. She's not the storm that broke me open. She doesn't burn me with every glance. She's good, but she's not you.

April 3rd

I don't think I can do this. I can't forget you, Lyra. Feb is gentle. She's calm. But you...you were fire. I miss that..

I stopped breathing.

I read each one. Some written before the breakup. Others after. But far too many written after he met me. The last one? Seven months ago. We were already living together.

"She's good. But she's not you."

I sat on the bed, the letters trembling in my hands. Not a single one was written to me. Not even a post-it note with a heart. I had believed him when he said, "I'm not much of a romantic."

He just wasn't one with me.

And suddenly, all our late-night talks, all the quiet moments we shared, all the tender touches, they all looked different now. I had been the one to fill the silence, but she had been the one who could set his soul on fire. I wasn't the storm. I was the rain that softened his edges.

I held the letters to my chest, not because I wanted them, but because they were the only part of him that still felt real. Still felt like the man I thought I knew. Even if he was no longer mine.

He had spent most of his life with Lyra.

They had been together since they were teenagers.

She had been his first love, his wildfire.

She had burned him, too brightly and too fiercely, and then left for someone else.

Now, I was just the gentle drizzle, falling quietly where the fire once burned.

I wasn't her. In that moment, it felt like I never would be.