Page 68 of One Room Vacancy
She doesn’t say anything right away, just opens the flap.
And then, slowly, she begins to read.
Sage,
I know a letter is the coward’s way out. But I’ve been a coward for a long time when it comes toyou, so I figured I might as well finish the job in character.
I don’t know where to start, because everything feels like it comes out wrong when it’s about you. So maybe I just say this: I’m sorry.
I’m sorry for all the times I made you feel like you were temporary. Like you were something I could reach for only when the world fell apart. The truth is, you were the only thing that ever made sense, and that scared the hell out of me. So I kept pushing you away. I told myself you’d leave eventually anyway, because that was easier than admitting I was the one who didn’t deserve to stay.
I’m sorry for Kara. For the way I let her hang around long after she should’ve been gone. I wasn’t in love with her anymore, Sage, not in the way that counts. But she reminded me of my mom in a lot of ways. The chaos, the volatility, the way love was always tied to control and crisis. It felt familiar. Broken, but safe in its own warped way. She knew how to need me in a way that didn’t ask for too much. With her, I could keep hiding.
With you, it was always different.
You never needed me. You just wanted me. And I didn’t know how to sit with that. Didn’t know how to be chosen without it feeling like a trap. Youdidn’t ask me to save you. You just asked me to show up, and I didn’t know how.
I don’t blame you for what you said. You were right. I was a mess, and I used you as a soft place to land. But I wasn’t using you to forget someone else. I was using you to remember what it felt like to hope for more.
I’ve changed, but that doesn’t undo the way I hurt you. I’m not asking for a clean slate. I just needed you to know the truth.
You asked me why I kept pushing you about the bar. It’s not because I think it’s easy or because I thought you owed it to Harry, it’s because I’ve seen you come alive behind that counter. Because I believe in you, even when you don’t.
You’re not a placeholder, Sage. You never were. You’re the whole damn story. You’re the chapter I wasn’t brave enough to write until now.
I love you. I think I’ve loved you since the first time you made fun of me for drinking IPAs.
If you never want to speak to me again, I’ll understand. But if some part of you still believes in second chances, I’ll be here.
Even if it’s just to cheer you on from the crowd when you make it on your own.
Always yours,
Gabe.
Her eyes stay on the page long after the words have stopped.
I watch her chest rise and fall, slow and shallow, like she’s trying not to breathe too hard, like even that might break her open. Her fingers tremble just slightly at the edges, but she doesn’t drop the letter.
When she finally looks up at me, her eyes are misty, glassy with something too big to name. Not quite tears, not yet, but close.
She swallows, mouth parting like she wants to say something, but no sound comes out. Her gaze flicks back down, like maybe if she reads it again, she’ll understand how real it is.
I take a step forward before I even realize it, instinct more than choice. But I stop myself, give her space, even though everything in me wants to close the distance.
“I meant every word,” I say softly. “Even the ones that make me sound like an idiot.”
Her lips twitch. Barely, but it’s there.
“I’ve never had anyone say they love me before,” she says quietly. “Not in a romantic way, anyway.”
My heart cracks a little, then a lot. “You should’ve heard it a long time ago.”
She blinks hard, once, twice, like she’s trying to blink it all away. But it clings to her anyway—the letter, the truth, the weight of everything unsaid finally let loose.
Then: “I just got off the phone with Harry.”
I still. Her voice is steadier now, but not guarded. Open. Like she’s walking toward something instead of running away.
