Cherreads

Chapter 17 - Chapter Seventeen: The Letter He Never Meant to Send

The fundraiser was three days away.

The shop buzzed with quiet momentum: strings of paper stars hanging from the ceiling, donation jars on the counter, stacks of curated books arranged with care. Alia wore a thin cardigan that smelled faintly of lavender and dust. Micah hadn't stopped writing—flyers, emails, and poems she kept finding in her books.

It was working.

Eastcliff was waking up to their story.

Then, on a quiet Wednesday morning, Ezra's desk drawer stuck.

Alia was trying to find an old shop ledger when the bottom drawer jammed halfway. She yanked harder—and the drawer gave way, along with a narrow envelope wedged behind it.

The paper was yellowed, hand-addressed in Micah's writing.

> To Claire.

Not to be read unless I disappear again.

She almost didn't open it.

Almost.

But the weight of it—it wasn't just ink. It was the version of Micah he had buried.

And she couldn't love him fully without knowing all of him.

So she opened the letter.

> Claire,

I know I've been drifting. I know I haven't spoken out loud what you already know—your death wasn't just loss. It was guilt.

I should have told you I loved you the day before the crash. Instead, I made a joke. I shut the door too hard. And then you were gone.

So here it is: I loved you. I still do.

But I also know someday, if I'm lucky enough to keep breathing long enough... I might love someone else.

And when that day comes, I hope she forgives me for the parts of my heart I buried with you.

Because she won't be second.

She'll just be new.

— Micah

Alia folded the letter slowly.

Tears pressed behind her eyes—but they weren't from jealousy.

They were from recognition.

She had been loving Micah with the same aching hope:

That someone could choose you without forgetting who came before.

And in those lines, she saw the man he was trying to become.

Not perfect.

Not polished.

But ready.

---

That evening

She found him in the alley again, organizing crates for the fundraiser.

When he saw the letter in her hand, his expression crumpled. "Alia—"

"I'm not angry," she said quickly. "I just… needed to see this side of you. The one who tried to speak to the past so he could live in the future."

Micah's breath hitched.

"I didn't know it was still there."

"I'm glad it was."

He looked at her, unsure. "You're not scared?"

"I'm terrified," she said. "Because this is real. Because you've lived loss. And now you're learning how to live love."

He reached for her hand slowly.

"Do you still want this?" he asked.

Alia stepped in, so close they shared breath. "Yes," she whispered. "Not because you were perfect before me… but because you're choosing me now."

He kissed her then.

Not gently. Not cautiously.

But like a man finally free of ghosts.

---

That night, Micah left a single line on the typewriter.

> I loved her. But I love you awake, alive, unafraid.

And Alia—smiling, soft, sure—typed her reply:

> Then let's live this one with the lights on.

More Chapters