The days that followed blurred together in a strange mixture of stillness and unease. I tried to pretend things were normal, but nothing felt normal anymore. I'd sit at the breakfast table, toast untouched, staring at the butter knife like I'd forgotten what it was for. Everyone tried — Mum making tea every hour as if it were medicine, Dad hovering near me whenever he was home, Teddy finding excuses to check on me without making it obvious. I loved them for it, but it also made me feel like I was made of glass, like one wrong move and I'd shatter.
Mostly, I withdrew. My room became my shelter, the one place I could control. I'd lie on the bed and trace the cracks in the ceiling, the sound of life downstairs muffled and far away. I didn't want them to see how weak I felt. Didn't want them to see the parts of me that still trembled in the dark.
Tommy's letters arrived, one after another, neat envelopes with my name written in his familiar hand. I couldn't bring myself to open them. They sat on my desk like little weights, each one heavier than the last. I wanted to read his words, wanted his comfort, but I was terrified too. What if he looked at me differently when he knew? What if this — what Harry did — left a mark Tommy couldn't love past? The thought hollowed me out.
The bakery said I could take time off until I felt ready to come back, but that meant no wages. And without wages, how would I ever save enough to see Tommy in September? It felt like everything I'd been building toward had been knocked sideways, and now I was trapped in a waiting game with no clear end.
My family didn't press me. They gave me space, but I could see the weight in their eyes. Dad's silence was heavier than usual, Mum's fussing more anxious Teddy's teasing eased off. They carried their own wounds from that night, I knew it. And somehow that made me feel both less alone and more guilty.
I wanted to be strong, to prove I could carry this. But most nights I just lay awake, wondering how I'd ever tell Tommy, wondering if I'd ever feel like myself again.
The letters sat on my desk like tiny ghosts, Tommy's neat handwriting calling out to me each time I glanced at them. Day after day, I'd picked them up, only to set them down again, too afraid to love him only to lose him.
One afternoon, the house was quiet. I could hear Mum downstairs clinking dishes in the sink, Dad rattling the shed door as he sought out jobs to keep himself busy, Teddy's chatter with the twins. The normal sounds of home. Safe sounds. And yet inside me, everything still felt fractured.
I reached for the first letter with trembling fingers. The envelope was already soft from being handled so many times. My heart pounded as I slid my thumb under the flap, unfolding the paper with a kind of reverence, like I was unwrapping a piece of him.
"My love, Emma", it began, his handwriting steady and certain, as though he were sitting right across from me. My breath caught, tears already gathering at the corners of my eyes.
He wrote about missing me, about dreaming of the lake and the woods where we'd first met, about how every day away from me felt too long. His words weren't heavy with demands or expectations — they were full of longing, gentleness, the kind of love that didn't ask for anything in return.
By the time I reached the end — "I can't wait to see you again, soon" — my tears were falling freely, staining the paper. I pressed it to my chest, sobbing quietly, overwhelmed by the simplicity and strength of his love.
For the first time since that night, I let myself believe I wasn't broken beyond repair. That maybe, just maybe, he could still want me — all of me — even after everything.
I couldn't stop at just one letter. Once I'd sensed his voice again, I needed more, as though the letters could somehow stitch me back together. My hands shook as I reached for the next envelope.
"Emma, it's been a week since I last heard from you. I'm trying not to worry, but I can't help it. Are you all right? Please write soon. I miss you so much."
The tears came faster this time, stinging hot as I imagined him pacing, restless, trying to fill the silence I had left him with. I whispered into the empty room, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," though I knew he couldn't hear me.
The third letter was more urgent, the edges of his worry spilling through.
"Emma, something must be wrong. Did I say something, do something to hurt you? If I did, I'll fix it — just tell me. I don't know how to stand not knowing. Please, don't shut me out."
The sobs wracked my chest until I had to press my fist against my mouth to keep quiet. He thought it was his fault. That sweet, foolish boy thought he'd somehow hurt me, when all along it was me drowning in something I couldn't put into words.
The fourth envelope tore ragged in my hands.
"It's been weeks now. Every day without your letters feels heavier. I'm trying to be patient, but Emma, I need to know you're all right. Even just a single line — anything. Please. I can't bear this silence."
I buried my face in the paper, the ink blurring as my tears soaked it through. My chest hurt with it, with the missing, with the ache of how much he loved me and how cruel I'd been to leave him in the dark.
The final letter lay waiting. My hands were clumsy, desperate, as I opened it.
"Emma — I don't know what's happened. I lie awake at night thinking of you, praying you're safe. I can't stand the thought of you hurting and me not being there. Whatever it is, you don't have to face it alone. Please let me in. Please let me love you."
That was when something inside me broke — not in the way it had the night Harry grabbed me, but in the way a storm breaks into rain after too long choking the air.
I clutched all the letters to my chest, rocking with the weight of them and through the sobs, a truth rose sharp and undeniable: Tommy wasn't the one I needed to shut out. He was the one I needed to help me survive it.
He was my anchor. My compass. My way back to myself.