Vencian lay on his side with one knee bent, the sheet gathered under his fingers where he had pulled it close. His breathing stayed even after a short hitch, the ache along his ribs easing once he shifted his shoulder a fraction.
The table stood beside the bed, close enough that his hand could reach it without stretching. The book rested there exactly as it had been left, its cover turned slightly toward him.
He rolled his head a few degrees and let it rest back against the pillow. The movent sent a brief pull through his side, sharp enough to register, then it passed. His eyes tracked the ceiling beam until it stopped moving.
The pause felt chosen rather than forced. He waited without naming what needed to settle, holding the mont as it was.
A faint blue glow hovered near the far wall. Quenya shifted position once, slow and soundless, then went still again. He did not look directly at her for long.
It was small at first, a shift closer to the table, then back toward the wall. Her glow dimd and brightened in uneven pulses that did not match her breathing. She stopped, hovered, then changed position again without settling.
He watched without lifting his head. She did not usually pace when they were alone. When sothing caught her interest, she asked. When she worried, she hovered close and spoke fast. This was neither.
Her eyes slid to the book and away. A mont later, they returned to it and stayed there longer. She adjusted her height, lowered herself, then rose again as if correcting a mistake that kept repeating.
He waited through three more movents. His hand stayed flat on the sheet, fingers loose.
"What are you doing?" he said.
The words ca out level. They were not an invitation.
Quenya stilled for half a breath. Her glow tightened, then softened again. "Nothing important," she said. The answer arrived too quickly, placed before she finished turning toward him.
She looked at the book again while speaking. The habit was new.
Vencian shifted his shoulder to ease the pull along his ribs. The mattress creaked once. "You don’t hover like this," he said. "Not unless sothing is off."
Her eyes flicked to him. "I’m fine," she said, then stopped herself. The light around her edges wavered and steadied with effort.
She added, quieter, "I thought you would have opened it by now."
He glanced at the table. "Opened what?"
She looked away. "The book."
He let the silence sit. His gaze stayed on her, not the book.
"What happened while I was out?" he asked.
Quenya hovered closer than before, low enough that her glow brushed the table’s edge. Vencian kept his eyes on her and waited.
"What happened?" Vencian said.
"Gundal brought you to Jerenir after you passed out," she said.
Quenya stayed close as she spoke. Her light shifted while she went through it, step by step, not sparing him the order of events. Vencian listened without moving, letting the sequence settle where it belonged.
"Before leaving with them she checked on you," Quenya added. "Checked where you were hurt without making a contact."
He breathed in, slow, then out. The pieces settled into place without effort.
Quenya hesitated. Her eyes drifted back to the book and stayed there.
His gaze returned to the table.
The book’s spine still angled slightly toward the bed, close enough that he could hook it with two fingers. Earlier, it had been an object he was choosing to ignore. Now it sat where it had been placed, doing exactly what it was ant to do.
He shifted his hand once and let it rest again. The distance between the mattress and the table felt shorter than before. Not asured, just apparent.
He followed the recount again, but failed to understand why Seris did what she did.
The letter was what remained when all of that was stripped away.
Exhaling, he let his head settle back against the pillow. Not reading it no longer preserved anything. It did not keep options open. It only deferred a response that was now required.
The book had been waiting because it was ant to be waiting. Not for comfort. Not for closure. For the point where everything else stopped absorbing impact for him.
He looked at Quenya once. She t his eyes and stayed silent.
"She gave this to Aline before the excursion," he said. The words were flat, placed. "That ans she didn’t expect to co back."
Delay had narrowed to a single remaining choice.
Vencian reached for the book.
The cover had more weight than he expected. The leather was worn smooth at the edges, cooler than the air when it t his palm. He drew it onto the bed and steadied it there, thumb pressed along the spine until the binding settled.
Quenya stayed where she was. Her glow no longer shifted.
He opened the cover. The pages whispered as they separated, a dry sound that stopped once his hand stilled them. Near the middle, a folded sheet rested where it had been placed, tucked cleanly against the inner seam.
He slid two fingers under it and lifted it free. The parchnt resisted slightly, then gave. One crease. A seal pressed flat rather than raised, its edge faint under his thumb.
He unfolded it with care.
The page opened.
---
Sleep has been unkind to lately. I keep waking up in places I don’t rember choosing, usually after my thoughts run too far ahead of .
What they lead to isn’t sothing I take pride in. More often than not, they circle back to you—no matter how deliberately I try to bury them.
Cutting your na out of my world seed possible at first. I stopped listening for it. Still, it finds its way back to .
It reminds of when you used to read for . How the words sounded better simply because they passed through you. I miss that.
So of what I did was selfish. I don’t expect forgiveness.
The past leaves footprints we’re bound to step into again... Sothing I can never bring myself to let you walk into because of .
Rember the question you once asked —whether I would rather lose all my mories, or never be able to make new ones.
That question went unanswered at the ti. That ti, I wasn’t certain in choosing an answer on the spot.
There is an answer now.
I would rather stop making new mories.
What has already been lived is sufficient. Anything beyond that only invites attachnt where it isn’t needed.
I wrote this without expecting a response. What you do with it is outside my control, and I have already accounted for that.
This is the part where I acknowledge my fault.
Things were ended abruptly, without regard for what it would cost you. That was a decision I made with clear intent. You are free to hate for it.
I won’t ask you to understand it.
But even so, there is one thing I never said to you, because it would have served no purpose while we were together.
I was always prepared to leave from the mont I learned the truth of that day. I think you know what day I an...
What I misjudged was how easily staying could begin to compromise that resolve.
You have a way of making things feel stable, Ven. Not safe—just stable enough to invite hesitation. I noticed it when I caught myself delaying decisions I would once have made without pause.
That exceeded what I could allow.
Attachnt changes what you are willing to postpone. I was already starting to postpone things that should never wait once set in motion.
So I chose distance.
That likely reads as cold to you. Perhaps even cruel. You would not be wrong. I have never pretended to be gentle with things that could be used against .
This letter has already gone on longer than I intended. If you are reading it, then it is because I chose words over a eting that will never happen.
There is regret for what was lost. Not enough to reclaim it, but enough to acknowledge it without pretending otherwise. I chose, and I carried what followed. That is simply the cost of choosing at all.
I hope you move forward without looking back for explanations I will not give.
And whatever else you decide to think of —
you gave a steadiness I did not expect.
That will have to be enough.
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