Page 117 of Stalkers Anonymous

I set the letter down on the table with hands that won’t stop shaking.

It isn’t what I expected.

I don’t know what I expected, exactly. Maybe a plea. Maybe a defense. Maybe something I could easily tear apart and throw away and feel vindicated about throwing away. Instead, what I got was a man who took full responsibility for what he did and then asked for nothing.

I read the letter again.

I read it a third time.

Cole is still working on himself. He’s not done. And he isn’t lying to me about not being done. That lands harder than anything else.

I don’t rip it up, and I don’t throw it away. Instead, I fold the letter back along its creases and tuck it into the back of the kitchen drawer where I keep my takeout menus.

Chewy climbs up my arm and settles on my shoulder, pressing his little face into my neck.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” I tell him, but of course he doesn’t have much of an opinion.

For the first time in weeks, I fall asleep thinking about Cole with hope in my heart.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Cole

I’m sitting in my truck outside the gym, waiting for my daily check-in call with Tyler. It’s become part of my morning routine—coffee, a brief meditation exercise Tracey taught me, then an accountability call before I work out.

My phone rings at exactly seven forty-five. Tyler’s nothing if not punctual. And he always starts talking before I say hello. It’s slightly irritating, but I’m getting used to it.

“Morning. How are you feeling going into the day?”

“Good,” I answer, and mostly mean it. “I slept six hours straight for the second time this week.”

“That’s good. You’re starting to level out. Any urges?”

This is the question he asks every morning, and every morning I have to be honest about the answer. Mostly.

“I thought about her when I was lying in bed.”

“How long?”

“Maybe two minutes. I got up and brewed coffee instead.”

“Good. Two months ago that same urge would’ve lasted hours and you probably would’ve acted on it.”

“Yeah.”

“And her stalker?”

I’ve been expecting this question. He asks it every few days now, and I’ve gotten good at the answer. “Haven’t thought about him. Haven’t looked.”

That part is true. I haven’t looked. The app is still installed on my phone, sitting in the folder I buried three screens deep, the icon muted so it doesn’t push notifications. I haven’t opened it in over a month. Tyler doesn’t ask whether the app still exists. He asks whether I’ve used it. That’s the hair I keep splitting.

“Good.” Tyler’s voice doesn’t change. He either believes me or he’s decided to let me get away with believing myself. I can’t tell anymore. “What’s on your agenda today?”

“Applying for more jobs. And I’m writing another letter tonight.”

“To Hailey?”

“Yeah. Not to send this time, just to process. It helps me work through my thoughts.”

So far, I’ve written seventeen letters. Some are hand-written apologies while others are typed out. Some are updates on my recovery. Some are just me missing her, working through the grief of losing my entire world. They all sit in a folder on my computer, password-protected and titled Recovery Work.