The skies were soft with late-summer haze, and Ava found herself with an odd burst of energy—the kind that struck rarely during pregnancy, often followed by a deep nap and a craving for lemon popsicles.
Jamie had taken Thomas out for an afternoon walk, promising to bring back ice cream and stories of imaginary sea monsters they might spot near the creek. The house was quiet, bathed in golden light.
Ava glanced toward the hallway, her eyes lingering on the narrow pull-down stairs to the attic. They hadn't been up there in months—not since they boxed away the last of the baby things Thomas had outgrown. Something tugged at her, a strange feeling that the attic held something calling her name.
With a hand braced on her belly, she carefully climbed up, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath her. The attic air was thick with dust and the smell of cardboard and cedar. Shafts of light streamed through the small round window near the roof's peak.
She reached the stack of boxes labeled "Ava—College", smiled at the sloppy handwriting, and pulled the lid off one.
Inside were journals, photo albums, and bundles of papers wrapped in string. She reached for the top one, a small bundle of envelopes with yellowing edges.
And then—she saw it.
A lavender-colored envelope, tucked between two composition notebooks. Her heart gave a sudden thud.
Her name was written across the front in handwriting she hadn't seen in years.
Luca Farrow.
She hadn't thought about him in a long time.
They'd met in their first year of university, both studying literature, both young and foolish in their own poetic way. He was passionate, impulsive, often caught in grand declarations and midnight poems. Their relationship had been brief but intense, ending in heartbreak and silence. He'd transferred mid-year without warning, and that had been that.
Ava stared at the envelope. The postmark was from over five years ago. Somehow, it had been misplaced, tucked away without her ever knowing it arrived.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Ava,
I don't know if this will ever reach you. I don't even know if you'll want it to. But there are some words that have stayed lodged in my throat all these years, and writing them down is the only way I can breathe again.
I left badly. I know that. I was running—from everything, really. From school, from my own expectations, from the way you made me feel like I could be more. I wasn't ready for that. I wasn't ready for you.
But not a week has passed that I haven't thought about your laugh echoing down the library stairs. Or the way you underlined your favorite book passages and left notes in the margins for no one but yourself.
You loved so completely. I didn't know how to receive it then. But I do now.
I don't expect a reply. I don't want to disrupt your life. I just wanted to say—thank you. For being my first real heartbreak. And my first glimpse of what love could be.
Be happy, Ava. Wherever you are.
—Luca
Ava let the letter rest in her lap, her eyes staring blankly at the box in front of her.
She didn't cry. She didn't smile. She simply sat there, suspended between two timelines—who she had been, and who she was now.
Luca had once meant something. The ache of his sudden disappearance had wounded her deeply. She remembered the long nights wondering what she'd done wrong, the poems she couldn't finish writing, the way she'd buried herself in study just to outrun the pain.
And now—he was a whisper from the past.
She stood slowly, folded the letter, and tucked it gently back into its envelope.
Back downstairs, the sound of the front door opening pulled her from her thoughts.
"We're back!" Jamie's voice rang out. "We found a sea monster that looked suspiciously like a floating log."
Ava descended the attic steps and smiled faintly as she entered the kitchen. Thomas barreled toward her with chocolate ice cream smeared across his cheek. "Mommy! I saw a crab claw but Daddy said it was a leaf!"
"That's a very common mistake," she said with mock seriousness, wiping his cheek and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
Jamie raised an eyebrow as she approached him. "You okay?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I found a letter in the attic. From someone I knew. A long time ago."
Jamie's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't press. "You want to talk about it?"
"Maybe later," she said softly, threading her fingers through his. "It just reminded me how far I've come. How far we've come."
He squeezed her hand. "Sometimes the past has to echo so we remember how strong the present really is."
She looked at him, really looked at him. His sea-tousled hair. The crinkles around his eyes. The gentle way he looked at her even when she felt tired and swollen and vulnerable.
"I love you," she whispered.
"Forever," he replied.
That night, after Thomas was asleep and the moonlight pooled through the bedroom window, Ava placed the letter in a small keepsake box. Not out of longing, not out of sadness. But as a note in the melody of her life—a verse that had once played softly before the chorus began.
She curled up beside Jamie, her hand on her belly, her heart full.
In a house built of letters, laughter, and love, there was room for all the stories that had shaped her—even the unfinished ones.