Scarlett #2
I’ve started it a thousand different ways and none of them make sense.
They took me inside today.
The bars closed.
The lights flickered.
The door locked behind me.
And the only thing I could think was—
you didn’t look at me.
Not once.
You kept your eyes on your hands like if you looked up, you’d break.
Like I’d break.
Maybe we already did.
I keep hearing your voice.
The one you used in court.
Flat.
Strained.
Nothing like the way you used to talk to me when it was just us.
You said you didn’t know why I did it.
You said we were never close.
Do you know how that sounded?
It sounded like you were trying to erase me.
Erase everything.
I don’t know what you think this letter is.
I don’t know if you’ll even read it.
You’re probably angry.
Or scared.
Or both.
But I need you to know something.
I didn’t kill Tyler the way they said.
And you know that.
You were there.
You saw what happened.
You saw what he did.
You saw what I did to stop him.
You know why I did it.
And you know what you did today.
You didn’t tell the truth.
You didn’t protect me.
You didn’t protect yourself.
You saved him.
Not me.
Why?
Why did you do that?
I keep replaying your voice.
The way it broke on the last question.
The way you looked like you wanted to run.
I don’t understand any of it.
I don’t understand you.
But I know this:
If you’re scared,
if someone made you say those things,
if you think I hate you—
I don’t.
I couldn’t.
You know that.
No matter what happens,
you’re still the only person who ever mattered.
I’ll write again tomorrow.
Just tell me you’re okay.
Please.
—Kai
I stop breathing.
My whole body goes still—like the words have reached into my chest and wrapped around something vital.
He wrote this before he broke.
Before the obsession sank its claws into him.
Before the prison swallowed him whole.
This letter…
It isn’t the man who stood beside my bed last night.
This is the boy I could never outrun.
The boy I betrayed.
The boy I tried to forget.
And failed.
A sob rips out of me before I can stop it.
I press a shaking hand to my mouth, the letter trembling in my other hand.
How long did he keep this?
How many nights did he stare at words I never read?
He carried this with him.
For years.
He kept it.
Opened it.
Held it.
Broke the seal with his teeth or his nails or his rage.
And then tonight—Tonight he brought it back to me.
A gift.
A curse.
A reminder.
“Why… why did you keep this?” I whisper, staring at the ink he pressed too hard, the lines where the pen nearly tore the page.
The bathroom tilts.
I clutch the sink, breathing shallow, heart battering against bone.
Because now I know the truth.
He didn’t just come into my house tonight.
He didn’t just leave a threat on my nightstand.
He brought back the piece of me I threw away.
The version of him I killed the day I testified.
The past I buried with shaking hands.
And he wants me to look at it.
He wants me to choke on it.
He wants me to remember what I did.
My breath fractures.
“No…” My voice trembles. “No, I can’t—”
But I’m already folding over the marble, clutching both letters in my hands as silent tears spill again.
Outside the bathroom door, the house hums with the kind of pristine silence that makes everything feel unreal.
But this?
This is real.
Kai was here.
Kai touched this.
Kai opened this.
Kai stood where I’m sitting.
And Kai wants me to remember the version of him I destroyed.
I don’t know how long I sit there—knees pulled to my chest,
letters crushed in my fist, breath trapped in the hollow space beneath my ribs.
Minutes.
Hours.
A lifetime.
The bathroom lights hum faintly above me, too bright, too sharp, turning the marble into a cold spotlight I want to crawl out from under.
I can’t let Noah see these.
I can’t let anyone see these.
If he finds them—if he reads even a single word—everything comes apart.
My heartbeat spikes, hard and sudden.
Move.
Move now.
I wipe my face with the heel of my hand, smearing tears and sleep and panic across my skin as I push myself off the floor. The letters flutter, fragile and dangerous, almost slipping from my grip.
“No,” I whisper, clutching them tighter. “No, don’t—don’t drop. Don’t… just stay with me.”
My voice fractures on the last words.
I glance at the door.
Noah is still asleep.
Still breathing evenly.
Still oblivious to the fact that a ghost stood at his bedside and stared at the woman he thinks belongs to him.
The mirror catches my reflection—wide eyes, blotchy cheeks, shaking hands.
I look exactly how I felt the day I stood in court.
Lost.
Terrified.
Divided.
I swallow a sob and force myself to act.
I unfold the towel cupboard beneath the sink—the one Noah never touches because he hates clutter and linens aren’t symmetrical enough for his liking.
Towels, folded neatly.
Perfume gift sets.
A spare box of cotton pads.
Nothing suspicious.
Nothing sentimental.
Perfect.
I shove aside a stack of folded towels, fingers clumsy and frantic, until there’s a small, hidden gap at the very back.
The letters tremble in my hand.
The new one.
The old one.
Both bearing my name like a wound.
My throat tightens.
I press them to my chest for one last breath, one last second of hesitation, before I slide both deep into the darkness behind the towels.
The space is so narrow I have to push hard to get them in.
My hands shake.
My heart stutters.
But the letters disappear into shadow.
Hidden.
Buried.
Breathing against each other like secrets with their own pulse.
I pull the towels back into place, neat and even, just the way Noah likes them.
He’ll never notice anything moved.
I close the cupboard softly.
As if closing a casket.
My knees threaten to buckle again, but I steady myself on the counter. The marble is cold against my palms, grounding me in a reality I’m not sure I want.
Kai was here.
Kai opened the envelope I returned.
Kai kept it with him for years.
Kai brought it back like a promise.
He wants me to look.
He wants me to remember.
He wants me to bleed with him.
I grip the sink harder.
I shouldn’t hide them.
But I can’t destroy them.
I can’t bring myself to throw them away.
My body won’t let me.
That realisation burns worst of all.
A knock—soft but sharp—hits the door.
My heart stops.
“Scarlett?”
Noah’s voice.
Deep. Sleep-rough. Suspicious.
Another knock.
“Are you alright?”
I inhale sharply and wipe my face with trembling fingers, praying to whatever god is listening that he can’t hear how violently my pulse is pounding.
I force my voice steady.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I’m fine.”
The lie tastes like iron.
The letters are hidden.
The door is locked.
The bathroom is spotless again.
On the counter, only my glass of water remains.
No evidence.
No trace.
No ghost.
Except the one still sitting in my chest.