Her voice in my bones

They handed me the letter after dinner.

No explanation.

Just my name on the envelope —

spelled the way she used to spell it.

With two Ns instead of one.

Arianne.

Like I was more than enough to fill the silence.

---

My fingers trembled when I opened it.

Not because I was afraid of what she'd say.

But because I already knew what she wouldn't.

---

The letter smelled like lavender.

That fake hospital lavender they put in waiting rooms to distract you from grief.

---

> "I know I hurt you."

"I didn't mean to."

"I was young. Confused. Trying to survive, too."

The usual things people say when they want your forgiveness

without carrying your scars.

---

> "I never stopped loving you."

And there it was — the line that always tries to fix what it never stayed around to mend.

---

I folded the letter halfway through.

Not out of anger.

Out of self-preservation.

Because nostalgia is a narcotic.

And I wasn't ready to relapse.

---

I walked to the garden.

Stared at the dead patch where nothing ever grew.

And I buried the letter there.

No ceremony.

Just fingers in dirt and a whisper:

> "If your love made me bleed, maybe it'll finally help something grow."

---

I didn't cry.

I just felt something loosen inside me.

Not healing.

Not closure.

Just… a knot coming undone without permission.