The way he looked at her during Ryan’s funeral.
I had seen it.
I had just chosen not to look too closely.
Because seeing meant acting.
Finally, I asked in a low voice:
—”Mason… did your dad ever say anything about Uncle Ethan?”
Mason kept staring out the window.
Silence.
Then he spoke:
—”My dad used to cry a lot before he died.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
—”Your dad cried?”
—”My dad and Uncle Ethan used to scream at each other in the garage. My dad told him to stay away from our house.”
—”And what happened after that?”
—”Uncle Ethan said that he had loved my mom first. He said it wasn’t fair.”
I felt the air leave my lungs.
The streetlights started to blur.
Not from the rain.
Ryan died three weeks after that night.
A heart attack.
Thirty-eight years old.
Healthy.
He went running every single morning.
“Inexplicable,” the doctors had said.
I remembered Ethan in the hospital waiting room that day. Pale. Shaking. I had held him tight while he sobbed against my shoulder.
I had believed those tears.
Now, I wondered:
Was he crying for his best friend?
Or for something entirely different?
I pushed the thought away.
I had to.
Because if I let it linger, I wasn’t going to be able to keep driving.
But it stayed anyway.
Like an insect trapped between two panes of glass.
There. Always there.
When we finally pulled up to Mia’s house, my stomach felt as hard as stone.
Mia opened the door wearing sweatpants and a tired smile.
The smile vanished the second she saw my face.
—”What happened?”
I looked down at Mason.
—”Sweetie, go upstairs and wash your hands.”
He hesitated.
—”Do you promise me he’s not coming here?”
Mia frowned.
—”Who?”
But Mason was already running up the stairs.
The moment he disappeared from view, I pulled the letter from my pocket.
—”You need to read this.”
At first, Mia looked confused.
Then she recognized the handwriting.
All the color drained from her face.
—”No…”
Her hands began to tremble as she read.
“Ryan, I need you to take this secret to the grave with you…”
She covered her mouth.
I watched her eyes scan every single line.
Every confession.
Ethan admitting he had always been in love with her.
Ethan confessing his jealousy.
Of her marriage.
Of her son.
Of the life he believed should have been his.
He wrote about waiting.
Waiting for cracks to appear.
Waiting for Ryan to fail.
Waiting for Mia to “finally understand who truly loved her.”
But Ryan never gave him that chance.