Adrian stood outside the post office, the sealed envelope in his hands.
Six pages of vulnerability. Six pages of truth. Six pages of everything he'd been too scared to say for eighteen years.
Plus the addendum he'd written in the three hours before meeting Dante—two more pages explaining Tyler's video, the party six years ago, the panic, the lie. Complete honesty, the way Dante had asked for.
Eight pages total. His entire heart on cream-colored paper.
He looked at the mailbox slot. Once the letter went in, there was no taking it back. Dante would read every word. Would see every vulnerable, broken, scared part of Adrian that he'd been hiding behind competition and rivalry and carefully constructed defenses.
His phone buzzed. Sage.
Sage: Did you send it?
Adrian: About to.
Sage: Then do it. Stop stalling.
Adrian took a breath. Walked to the mailbox. Held the envelope over the slot.
His hand was shaking.
Vulnerability isn't weakness, his mother had said. It's courage.
