Page 79 of Shattered Dreams
The next morning, there's an envelope on the mat when I come back from the park with Poppy. Thick, cream-colored paper. My name written in Roman's unmistakable scrawl across the front.
My heart pounds as I stare at it.
"Mommy, can I watch cartoons?" Poppy asks, already kicking off her shoes and leaving them in the middle of the hallway.
"Sure, sweetheart."
She disappears into the living room, and I'm left alone with the letter that feels like it's burning a hole in the table.
I know he's been quiet lately. I know he's been working on himself—therapy, distance, silence.
Just absence.
It's a different kind of hurt, this silence. The kind that doesn't scream but still echoes.
I make tea with shaky hands. Sit down at the table. Stare at the envelope until the letters of my name start to blur together.
Then I open it.
Ava,
I know you don't owe me shit. Not your time, not reading this, nothing. But I need you to hear me. Not screaming or fighting or throwing words around like I used to when I was losing my mind. Just the truth.
I didn't get what I had until I fucked it all up. Maybe that's what happens to guys like me—we think we're hot shit until we burn everything down.
But I see it now. All of it. How you kept our family together while I was chasing attention from strangers. How you never asked for much—just for me to be there, be honest, be loyal. Basic stuff that should've been automatic. You gave me so many chances to get my shit together, and I threw them all away.
I'm not writing this to ask you to forgive me. I don't get to ask for that anymore. I'm writing because I'm trying to figure out who I am without you.
And fuck, Ava, I hate that guy. But I'm working on it. Every hour of every day.
I'm in therapy. Real therapy. The kind that rips you apart before it puts you back together. Where you can't hide behind trophies or money or the fake version of yourself you show everyone else. It’s fucking hard, facing who I really am, who I’ve been to you. What I’ve done to us. You’d love my therapist—she doesn’t tolerate my shit either.
I've been making videos. Not for people to feel sorry for me—I know how that looks. For me. So I can tell Poppy someday that her dad fell apart, but he didn't stay broken.
I lost everything. All the endorsement deals. My career is ruined. I lost respect from guys I played with, from fans who used to wear my jersey.
But nothing hurts more than losing the right to walk in a room and see you smile when you see me.
I remember the first time you did that. You were in that coffee shop by campus, studying with some huge textbook. I said something stupid about how big it was, and you laughed. When you looked up at me, your whole face just lit up. Like I was worth being happy to see.
I lived for that look for ten years. And I threw it away for what? Some girl?
I'm not asking you to smile at me again. I'm not asking for anything.
Just want you to know: I loved you. Still do. Always fucking will.
Not the way I did when I was a selfish asshole who thought love meant you belonged to me. Who thought your job was to make me feel like a man instead of doing that work myself.
The way I do now. Quiet. Without expecting anything back. The way you should've been loved all along.
I’m just trying to be better, baby. Even if it's too late for us.
You deserve everything good, Ava. I'm sorry it took losing you to figure that out.
Yours always,
—Roman
