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I have never been that scared in my life.

Not when I woke up after the accident and realized my parents were gone. Not when I learned my voice wasn’t coming back. Nothing has ever scared me the way the thought of losing you did.

My tears fall faster now, quiet and hot and impossible to stop. The letters turn jagged, the new section pressed deep into the paper.

I have been in love with you longer than I know how to explain. Maybe since the first day we met. Maybe since the bleachers. And I kept telling myself I was fine watching from a distance as long as you were alive somewhere in the world.

I’m done with distance.

Not because I expect anything from you. Not because you owe me a damn thing. You don’t. You never will.

I just need you to know the truth.

I loved you before the world ended. I loved you when I carried you out of that dentist office. I loved you today when you stood over that man and proved, again, that every person who ever called you weak is a fool.

And if you let me, I will spend whatever time we have left making sure you never forget it.

Your Leon

Hope opens so wide it aches.

The final line waits near the bottom.

P.S. Frosted brown sugar Pop-Tarts still suck.

A laugh slips out through the tears.

“Wrong,” I whisper, wiping under my eyes with the heel of my hand. “So wrong.”

I fold the letter carefully, like rushing might damage whatever it just put back together inside me. Then I reach for the box.

It’s small. Light. I hesitate before opening it.

Inside are gold butterfly earrings.

Delicate. Simple. Small hoops with tiny wings that catch the reading light and throw it back subtle and warm.

There’s a note tucked beneath them.

From the store you destroyed. They survived the wreckage. Just like you did.

My lips press together, but it doesn’t stop the next tears.

Damn him.

I brush my fingertips over the earrings, then remove the plain studs I’ve been wearing and replace them with Leon’s butterflies. The hoops are cool against my skin at first. I turn my head toward the rearview mirror and lift the reading light.

A tired woman looks back at me.

Blood at her throat. Smudges beneath her eyes. Hair falling loose from its bun. A face carved by fear, hunger, exhaustion, and too many almosts.

But the earrings shine.

Beside me, Joanie snores. Long. Loud. Aggressive.

Go get him.

Another snore rattles the window.