That night, while you painted, I found an old notebook tucked into a drawer in our study. Its pages were yellowed, corners bent, and at the back, there was a letter I had written months ago a letter to you.
I read the words as though someone else had written them, yet they were mine: raw, aching, filled with the fear of losing you before I had even fully held you. I had written it on a night we fought a quiet fight, full of silence instead of words. But I never gave it to you.
I walked into your studio, the letter in my hand. You looked up from your canvas, your eyes bright with color and thought.
"What's that?"
"Something I should have shared sooner."
You read it slowly, your fingers brushing each word as if they were fragile. When you finished, you didn't say anything right away. Instead, you wrapped your arms around me, pressing your forehead to mine.
"Even then, you were loving me."
We stood like that for a long time, the silence between us no longer empty, but full.
Outside, the rain began to fall again, and it felt like a blessing.