Mira entered the small workspace Liam used as his personal haven — a room that always felt warmer when he was in it, quieter when he wasn't. Dust hovered in soft strings across the sunlight cutting through the window. His jacket still hung where he left it. His notebooks were still stacked with that familiar, casual discipline only he understood.
She came here because she had run out of excuses not to.
The house had been too silent today.
Her heart had been even more so.
With a deep breath, she crossed the room and opened the drawer he used for things he never let anyone touch — not even her.
Inside were the usual staples: pens, a watch he never wore, loose sketches, a train ticket from the day they first met at the metro station. But underneath the clutter, something caught her attention — a white envelope tucked under a small leather-bound diary.
It had her name on it.
MIRA.
Not "Mi."
Not "M."
Not one of his quiet, teasing nicknames.
Her full name — written in that familiar, steady handwriting that had always looked like it belonged to someone patient.
Her breath stalled.
Slowly, she picked up the envelope. It wasn't sealed. It was almost as if he'd planned to give it to her the next day… and then never got the chance.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out the folded page inside.
His handwriting again — clean, calm, meticulous.
She unfolded it.
And the room disappeared.
---
My Mira,
I don't know when I'm going to give you this.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe next week.
Maybe when I finally gather the courage to say this in person.
But I want it written down, because I need you to know what you've done to my life.
Before you came into my world, everything felt functional — predictable, efficient, structured. I was operating, not living. You changed that. You turned my routine into purpose. You made the quiet parts of my day feel like something worth looking forward to.
And it terrifies me how much I rely on your smile to feel grounded.
I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I want to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of the way you look at me.
If time is kind, I hope I get decades with you.
If time is not… I hope these words still reach you one day.
I love you.
More than I've ever said.
More than I know how to say.
— Liam
---
Mira's fingers pressed against her lips as her vision blurred.
She read the letter again. Then again. Every sentence landed with the force of a lifetime she would never get to experience with him.
He was planning to give her this.
He was ready.
He wanted a future — with her.
The letter trembled in her grip, and for a moment she sank to the floor, letting the quiet of the room collapse around her. Grief hit her in a slow, crushing wave — not wild, not dramatic, just heavy enough to threaten her balance.
She whispered his name.
It sounded like a prayer that had no one left to answer it.
But as she held the letter close to her chest, a different kind of silence settled around her — not empty, not cruel… simply full of him.
This was his echo.
His voice, reaching her from a world she could no longer touch.
A reminder that even if he was gone, the love he carried for her never ended.
Not truly.
Not ever.
Mira stayed on the floor for a long time, her back resting against the side of Liam's desk. The letter lay open on her lap, as if even a moment of being folded felt like an insult to his last words.
Hours passed without her noticing.
At some point, the sun dipped low, and the soft amber light filled the room. The shadows stretched across the space, settling around her like quiet company. Mira traced her fingers along the edges of the page — not to smooth it, but just to feel something that belonged to him.
The house didn't feel empty anymore.
It felt paused — like he had only stepped out for a few minutes.
She picked up the diary under which the letter had been hidden. It was his private journal — the one he always carried but never let her read. Her fingers hovered over it.
She hesitated.
Then slowly, almost apologetically, she opened it.
Inside, the first page wasn't a journal entry.
It was a sketch.
Of her.
Not a grand portrait, not a perfected study.
It was a simple, soft pencil sketch of her sitting by the lake last spring, legs pulled up, chin on her knees, lost in one of her daydreams.
She remembered that day — the wind was cold, the water unusually quiet, and Liam had been drawing something, but she never saw what.
Now she knew.
On the corner of the sketch, he had scribbled just one line:
"This is what peace looks like for me."
Her breath caught.
She turned the page.
Another sketch — her laughing, head tilted slightly back, the way she did when he teased her about her midnight coffee habit.
Then another — her sleeping, curled up in his hoodie.
Then a small drawing of both their hands intertwined.
Page after page, it was all her.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not obsessive.
Just… tender. Observant. Real.
Each sketch was a moment he captured privately, quietly, without ever telling her.
Halfway through the book, she found something else — a folded slip of paper tucked between two pages.
She opened it.
It was a list.
"Places I want to take Mira."
1. The hilltop where I watched my first sunrise
2. The bookstore in Maple Valley she'd love
3. The café with the caramel waffles she always wanted to try
4. The town where my parents met
5. The sea — she deserves to see the sea at night
Her throat tightened painfully.
She read the list again and again, each line feeling like a promise that would never be fulfilled.
Mira leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the journal. Her shoulders shook, but for the first time since he died, the tears didn't feel chaotic. They felt like something sacred — a release she had been denying herself since the day everything changed.
He loved her quietly, deeply, consistently.
He loved her in all the ways she never knew to look for.
And now, all she had were these echoes of his intentions — his words, his sketches, his plans… a future frozen in ink and paper.
When she finally lifted her head, her eyes fell on the last page of the diary.
It was blank.
Completely empty.
For a moment she just stared at it, wondering if he had meant to write something there — a final thought, another sketch, another plan for them.
Slowly, she reached out and touched the untouched page.
And whispered, barely audible:
"Maybe… this one is for me."
A small, fragile resolve formed inside her chest — not hope, not healing yet, but something in between. Something like the first crack of light through a long-closed window.
She closed the diary gently, holding it and the letter together against her heart.
Liam was gone.
But his love — in every line, every stroke, every word — remained.
And for the first time since losing him, Mira allowed herself to breathe without feeling guilty.
Tomorrow, she would face the world again.
Not because she was ready.
But because he would have wanted her to.
TO BE CONTINUED ...