But she keeps trying anyway…
I move before I can think about it.
One step, then another, emerging from the shadows at the edge of the stage. The rain hits me immediately—cold and unrelenting, soaking through my jacket, plastering my pink hair to my forehead. I don't care.
I cross the space between us in a few long strides.
She doesn't hear me coming—too lost in her own devastation, in the desperate reach for that one page just out of grasp, in the roaring of rain and grief inside her head.
My hand extends upward.
My fingers close around the paper she's reaching for.
And I bring it down.
She freezes.
The page flutters between us, held in my grip—cream paper gone dark with water, words bleeding into each other but still partially legible. Something about dreams. Something about hoping he's okay. Something signedS.E.with a small heart dotting the E.
She doesn't turn to look at me.
Doesn't move at all.
Just stands there—rigid, trembling, rain streaming down her face—with her arm still raised and her hand still empty.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
The rain fills the silence. The wind makes the remaining letters sway and spin. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles—low and ominous, the storm that's been threatening all day finally arriving in full force.
Slowly—so slowly it's like watching time dilate—her arm lowers.
Her hand drops to her side.
Her head bows.
And I realize, with a flash of fury that nearly chokes me, that she's ashamed.
She's standing in the wreckage of her own heart, surrounded by proof of her devotion and vulnerability, and she's ashamed to be seen. Ashamed that I've witnessed her grief. Ashamed of the tears mixing with rain on her face and the ruined letters clutched against her chest and the raw, open wound of emotion that she can't hide.
She thinks it's pathetic.
She thinks she's pathetic.
And I want to kill everyone who ever made her feel that way.
I want to find every person who looked at her pain and called it weakness. Every bully who mocked her letters, her pen pal, her desperate need for connection. Every cruel voice that convinced her that caring too much was something to be embarrassed about.
I want to make them suffer.
But that's not what she needs right now.
Revenge can wait.
She can't.
I look at her—taking in every detail of her destroyed state. The way her shoulders curl inward, trying to make herself small. The way her fingers clench around the soggy papers, knuckles white. The way her chest heaves with suppressed sobs, she's trying to swallow.
She's shaking.
