Chapter 77
Chapter 77
Chapter 77: Letters I’ll Never Send
POV: Elizabeth
\---
The apartment was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made everything louder. The hum of the refrigerator. The wind tapping lightly against the windows. Even the ticking of the small wall clock near the kitchen felt like it was echoing.
I couldn't sleep. Not after the gala. Not after the way Jackson had looked at me like there was no one else in the world. Not after the rooftop, when he whispered something I wasn’t ready to hear.
I think I love you.
I sat up in bed, the covers twisted around my legs, and stared at the ceiling. My chest felt tight. Not in a painful way, just full. Like there were too many thoughts inside me and nowhere to put them.
I reached for the small journal tucked into my bedside drawer. The same one I hadn’t touched since I was about three months pregnant. Back when everything felt like a question with no answers.
My fingers trembled a little as I flipped through the old pages. Some were blank. Others had scribbled rants or grocery lists. One page just had Jackson’s name, over and over again, like I’d needed to remind myself he was real.
I found a blank page and started to write. Not an entry. A letter.
The first one was to my mother.
\---
Dear Mom,
You probably wouldn’t recognize me now. I’ve changed. Or maybe I’ve just come back to myself. I don’t know which hurts more.
You said I was selfish. Reckless. That I embarrassed the family. But I’ve spent months lying awake wondering, how much of your disappointment was really yours, and how much was what you thought the world expected of you?
I’m not angry anymore. I’m just tired.
\---
I stopped there, staring at the words, wondering if she’d even care if she read them. Part of me hoped she wouldn’t. Another part of me still wanted her to understand.
I flipped to a new page.
\---
Pearl,
You always made me feel like I was too much and never enough at the same time. I don’t even think you meant to. I think it was just easy for you, being the favorite.
But I saw the way you looked at me at the gala. You wore that same dress three months ago at a different event. The only difference was, I filled it out with a baby bump, and somehow that made you feel threatened.
You tried to humiliate me. Again.
But this time, I didn’t shrink.
This time, I remembered that I had a life growing inside me, and a man by my side who didn’t care what people whispered behind his back.
I stood up for myself. You should’ve seen your face.
\---
The smallest smile pulled at my lips.
I flipped again.
\---
To the girl I used to be,
You were always afraid. Of saying the wrong thing. Of being too loud. Of being left behind.
But guess what? You survived.
You’ve been through a lot, heartbreak, judgment, loneliness. But you’re still here. And maybe you still don’t believe you’re enough. But he does.
And for once… maybe that’s enough.
\---
I closed the journal slowly, my hand resting on top of it like I needed to press everything down before it escaped.
The baby kicked once, then settled.
I let out a quiet breath and reached for my water bottle on the nightstand. I took a sip, then curled on my side, the journal still beside me.
Eventually, I drifted off.
\---
I woke up to sunlight and soft footsteps.
Jackson.
I blinked sleepily and sat up just as he came around the corner from the kitchen. He was in his usual gray joggers and a plain T-shirt, hair still slightly messy from sleep. He looked younger like that. Softer.
He smiled when he saw me. “Hey.”
“Morning,” I murmured, rubbing my eyes.
He walked over and paused at the edge of the bed. That’s when I saw it, my journal, in his hand.
I sat up straighter. “Wait—”
“I didn’t read anything,” he said gently, holding it up before setting it down on the nightstand. “I just… saw your handwriting. I could tell it was something important.”
I swallowed, my heart beating a little faster. “It’s nothing.”
He sat beside me, brushing a hair behind my ear. “It’s not nothing if it helped you sleep.”
I didn’t know what to say. There was a lump in my throat, one I wasn’t ready for this early in the morning.
“You don’t have to be brave today,” he said quietly, his eyes searching mine. “Not with me.”
And just like that, everything inside me cracked open.
Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them. I pressed my face into his shoulder, and he pulled me into his arms without a word. His hand moved slowly up and down my back. Steady. Warm.
“I hate crying,” I whispered, my voice shaking.
“I don’t,” he said. “Not if it means you’re letting me in.”
We stayed like that for a while.
The baby kicked again, and Jackson laughed softly. “She’s always awake when you cry.”
“Maybe she’s trying to comfort me,” I said, my voice muffled against his chest.
“Or maybe she just wants pancakes.”
That made me laugh, even through the tears.
We didn’t talk much after that. Just sat on the bed, sunlight streaming in, the world outside forgotten.
Later, we made pancakes. Burnt the first batch. Jackson swore the pan was cursed.
“I’m buying a new one,” he muttered, scraping batter off the edge. “This thing has it out for me.”
“You say that every time,” I said, smiling as I stirred syrup into my tea.
He looked over at me, grinning like he hadn’t just watched me fall apart an hour ago.
But that was the thing about him.
He saw every version of me—and stayed anyway.