Page 63 of Midnight Between Us
I reach for it anyway.
The lid resists for a second, then gives with a soft sigh, like it remembers being opened.
Inside, a bundle of letters sits tucked with almost surgical precision.They’re tied together with a bluish-gray ribbon, frayed and faded in some areas.
They faintly smell of old paper and lavender.There are so many envelopes, kept with the same care Simone gives to everything—as if even her secrets deserve to be protected.Some old picture paper seems to be caught in between them.
My eyes fall to the top envelope.
My name is on it.
Not my initials.Not KT.Not some ironic nickname scrawled during a high school summer.No, this is written in full.Keir Timberbridge.With her handwriting which is unmistakable.
I stare at the ribbon, wondering if I should untie it—if I should read the one letter that has my name on it.
Then I do something I haven’t done since I got here.
I stop.
Not out of pain or exhaustion but because something in this moment calls for stillness as if the room is holding its breath and waiting with me.I lower myself onto the bench by the shelves, careful with the brace.My movements are stiff and uneven.I set the box with the stack of letters beside me like artifacts from a life I can almost reach—but not quite.
I stare at them but don’t touch them.Not really.
My hand hovers over the ribbon, fingers trembling just slightly.It’s not fear.Not quite.It’s something older than fear.Reverence, maybe.Guilt.Whatever it is, it makes me press the lid back into place, raise from my seat, and return the stack to its home before I lose my nerve.
I make sure it’s exactly as I found it.The book goes back.The panel slides into place.When I step away, there’s no trace of what I just saw.
But I feel it.
Like I just turned a page I was never meant to read.
Like a wound I didn’t know was still open.
Like a truth someone buried and hoped wouldn’t resurface.
She wrote to me.
And not recently.These letters appear to have been folded and refolded.Carried.Stored.Carried again.
What did she say?
Did she write me when I left?
When I told her to get lost?
When did she miss me?
Who else did she write to?
I don’t know how long I stand there, rooted in front of the books that hide secrets.Eventually, I move.Make my way back down the hall like I haven’t just found proof that a part of her keeps me tucked somewhere in her soul, even after I broke us.
Can I read them?I mean they’re addressed to me.Technically and legally, they’re mine.If I ask, would she let me read them?
No, I know what she’d say.She’d say it doesn’t matter.The past is over.She’ll even tell me that I don’t get to claim the words she wrote when I wasn’t brave enough to hear them.
And maybe she’d be right.
But that doesn’t mean I can forget they exist.
