Adrian spent three days writing the letter.
Not because he didn't know what to say—he had too much to say, too many words fighting to get out. The problem was saying it right. Saying it honest. Saying it without armor.
The first draft was defensive. Full of justifications and explanations and careful arguments about why his feelings were valid, why he hadn't seen it sooner, why everything that happened made sense in retrospect.
He threw it away.
The second draft was apologetic. Three pages of "I'm sorry" in different variations, like if he apologized enough times, it would somehow undo eighteen years of hurt.
He threw that away too.
The third draft was romantic. Flowery language about love and destiny and soulmates. It sounded like something out of a movie, polished and perfect and completely fake.
He threw it away and stared at the blank page in front of him.
Sage had texted earlier: Stop trying to write the perfect letter. Just write the true one.
