She stood. The room went silent. She walked out, leaving him alone at the table.
The Letter
That night, Charles returned to their now-empty home and sat at his desk. The chair creaked under the weight of fifty years of love and regret. He pulled out a piece of stationery—the kind Rose used for birthday letters—and began to write.
My dearest Rose,
I don’t know how to fix what’s broken between us, but I know I would if I could.
I never meant to control you. I just wanted to care for you.
When I dim the lights, it’s because I remember how you squint when they’re too bright.
When I order your salad, it’s because I’ve watched you pick out the tomatoes every time for fifty years.
Maybe that’s my problem—I’ve loved you in the only way I know how: quietly, through actions instead of words.
If I ever made you feel trapped, I’m sorry. I only ever wanted to keep you safe.
Always,
Charles
He folded the letter, placed it on her nightstand, and lay down.
He never woke up.Continue reading…
