He wrote her letters. Four of them. Five, maybe. But none made it to the envelope. Every time he read them back, they sounded bitter. Accusatory. Like he was demanding answers he didn’t have the right to ask.
How could you leave without saying goodbye? I thought our time meant something. Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? Was I really just a friend? Was that all I ever was to you?
He burned them in the stove, one by one.
The grief turned hot—anger, maybe—but it never lasted. It drained too quickly into a dull, sinking ache.
Looking back, maybe the signs had been there. Her silences. The way she’d look out past the lake, toward the hills, like she already had one foot out the door.
He spent the next three afternoons alone, sitting by the water, retracing conversations they never got to finish. The lake felt colder now. Still. Even the fish seemed uninterested. He didn’t cast a line.
There was nothing left to say.
All he wanted was to stew in it—wade into the loneliness and let it take him. To forget what it had felt like, being that full of light. But he couldn’t. He kept thinking of her. Wondering what she was doing in White Wood. If she liked it there. If she missed him at all. Or if someone else had already taken his place, some new man she met by the edge of another lake.
He’d always been drawn to her. She was bold, clever, impossible to ignore. At first, it was fascination. Then desire. Then something deeper he didn’t know how to name. His friends had chased girls for kisses and bragging rights, but he’d always wanted onlyher.
He used to imagine her hands in his hair. Her mouth against his. The way her breath might catch if he pulled her close.
But it wasn’t just that anymore. Not for a long time.
He wanted to stay beside her. That was the truth. He wanted her laughter, her questions, her fire. Her presence. And the realization—this terrifying, irreversible thing—that he might have lost her forever? That he might love her?
It hit like a stone in his chest. Heavy. Permanent.
As Collin stepped off the dusty path, his beautiful log cabin came into view.
Surprising. Lekyi was perched on the top rail of the front yard fence. What was he doing here? Collin called a greeting and quickened his steps.
Lekyi hopped off the fence, his North Town gold hair catching the light like polished straw. The sun hit it just wrong—Collin had to squint. He wore a black silk shirt with silver buttons marching neatly down the front, sleeves rolled up just past the elbows, the collar open just enough to suggest effortlessness. Of course it wasn’t effortless. Lekyi dressed like he expected to be admired. And he always was.
Collin wished, not for the first time, that he could wear confidence like that—tailored and breathable.
Lekyi held out his hand. Collin slapped it with a grin.
“Goodness, look at you. Who are you trying to seduce this time?”
Lekyi tugged at his collar, eyes alight. “You know the saying—every interaction is an opportunity. One never knows when a helpless damsel might appear along the woodland trail.”
Collin laughed. “Let me know which trail that is. Mine’s full of ogres and grandmothers.”
A breeze stirred the meadow, lifting a few strands of Lekyi’s perfectly straight hair. He ran a hand through it absently, glancing down at a white butterfly fluttering over a patch of Love-In-Idleness near the fence.
His tone changed. “Actually—I can’t stay for dinner tonight. I’m heading to the coast.”
Collin blinked. “There goes my plan that involved cutlery and dignity. What’s in Nereid?”
Lekyi didn’t catch the shift in his voice—or pretended not to. His grin only widened.
“A certain beachside beauty I’ve been courting. The kind with a voice like the tide and opinions like lightning.”
Collin forced a smile, though his chest had gone a little hollow. Was there anyone who could actually hold Lekyi’s attention longer than a few moon phases? His tastes were predictable—always the clever, polished girls from higher circles, the ones who knew how to wear elegance like jewelry.
“What happened with Rhea?” Collin asked.
Lekyi shrugged. “Ended. These things often do.”
Collin tried for levity. “Well, tonight is a fine night for stargazing and romantic delusions.”
