Chapter 134: What remains unsaid
The villa was quiet except for the groan of the old wooden beams above us, the gentle rush of wind winding around the windows. I sat on the edge of the bed, legs tucked up under me, the weight of my journal resting against my lap like a boulder. Caspian had left me alone this night, knowing I needed to be alone. The air was thick with lavender and smoke, and the distant ring of a soft wind chime. Slowly, I opened the journal, my trembling hands making their way to a fresh page. The cold leather-bound cover comforted me as I touched it. Calmed me, though my stomach heaved. The morning's therapy writing exercise remained stuck in my brain: "Write the letter you'd never send. Let yourself speak freely."
I thought deeply about what I was going to do right now and tired convincing myself on how it would be helpful to me and help me heal the wounds I had in my heart.
The pen wavered above paper. And then I began slowly and carefully.
Nathaniel,
I don't know when I lost you. Maybe it was after the first lie. Maybe it was after I couldn't respond with 'no' without consequence. Maybe it was after the constant need to dominate just to prove a point.I think I held on to you for as long as I did because I was afraid of who I would be if I didn't have the ruin you infused in me.
The ink blurred ever so slightly where my tear had fallen on the page. I dried my eyes and went on.
You made me think love's a trap, that for peace, I would have to obey. I thought I could always make the wrong, you, right. But you didn't want to be made right. You just wanted to be obeyed. And I'm angry about that part of me still wonders if you're okay.
But now it's not saving you.
This is of me reaching the silence once more. The one that is not following a storm.
When I finally laid down the pen, my hand hurt. The words glared back at me—raw, jagged, honest. I hadn't realized I had been crying until I heard the door creaking open.
"Lily?" Caspian's voice was quiet, tentative.
I closed the journal quickly, but he saw the tears on my face. I turned away, wiping my face.
"Hey," he whispered, leaning in next to me. I felt the warmth of his body before I saw him sit beside me. "Are you okay?"
I nodded. Shook my head. Shrugged.
Caspian didn't ask for a retake. He wrapped my hands in his, and I let them fall into his, his thumbs tracing over my knuckles in slow, steady circles.
"You wrote this?" he whispered softly.
I nodded again. "Yeah I did. I just wanted to put some of the things I was feeling inside into writing, that’s all this is."
He didn't ask. Didn't try to make it right. He just sat next to me on the ground, his hands clasped over mine.
The quiet between us, but not empty. Full of all the things we hadn't said.
Some time went by before I opened the journal again. My hands still shook, but only less. I looked at him uncertainly. "Would you like to hear some of it?"
His eyes scanned mine. "If you want to."
I turned the book to the page, throat clearing. "Just. a part."
I read, soft voice trembling: "You made me think love was a cage. I kept thinking that I could repair it, repair you. But you didn't want to be repaired. You just wanted to be trailed."
I paused, couldn't go on. Caspian's grip on my hand tightened.
His eyes did not let mine go. His voice was coarse when he spoke, "I wish I'd found you sooner."
The words broke open something within me. Not a wound—something else. A hope.
I leaned in before I could think twice. He met me halfway.
The kiss was slow, but it wasn't hesitant. It didn't need asking. It didn't need taking. It gave.
His hands circled my waist as I sat up on the bed, drawing him to me. The journal dropped to the floor, forgotten. My hands held onto his shirt, something to cling to.
The wind outside began, licking at the windows like breath. The room warmed now—like we'd shifted something out of view in the air. His lips traced the shape of my mouth, his kiss respectful.
"Shh, you're safe," he whispered against my skin, as if he could feel the fear that was thrumming behind my pulse. "I've got you."
I closed my eyes and breathed in. Cedar and heat and home.
The kiss deepened, not rushed—just true. When we finally released each other, we didn't move much at all. His forehead was pressed to mine, his breath on mine in the stillness between us.
"Thanks for reading that to me," he told me.
"Thanks for not turning your back on it," I whispered softly as if I was afraid of my voice being heard my an invisible eavesdropper.
He nodded his head in the slightest movement. "I never will. I mean it, you can trust me on that and I don’t want you to forget that."
We sat on the bed together, still dressed, just holding each other. My head on his chest, his hand in my hair. The journal lying on the floor, pages open to the letter I never wrote. A letter that I wish could unburden me of my insecurities and guilt.
I thought of all the things no one would ever say. But for the first time, that did not scare me. Because he was present. And I wasn't alone anymore in the silence.
Outside, the wind swayed. The chimes came to rest. It felt as if peace descended on the world at that moment.
And in the space between beats, something inside me began to heal.