Chapter 8: The Things We Didn’t Say
Mae didn’t know why she went to the Willow Creek summer fair that night.
Maybe it was habit—some old rhythm her body remembered even when her heart tried to forget. Maybe it was nostalgia, or boredom, or just the quiet pull of a place that had once meant everything.
Whatever the reason, she found herself weaving through the small crowd gathered on the town green, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and cut grass, the bright lights of the carousel spinning in slow, lazy circles.
She didn’t expect to see him.
Not anymore.
Not here.
But life doesn’t always wait for your heart to be ready.
Sometimes it just shoves you into the deep end and watches you swim.
It happened by the cotton candy stand.
Mae had just handed a crumpled bill to the vendor when she turned—and froze.
There he was.
Leo.
Older.
Taller, broader through the shoulders, a little scruff along his jaw.
But it was him.
The boy who had folded paper hearts and built a kingdom out of broken boards and promises.
The boy who had loved her when love was still a wild, unfamiliar thing.
He was leaning against the fence by the ferris wheel, talking to someone Mae didn’t recognize, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
For a moment, she just stared, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She could walk away.
She could pretend she hadn’t seen him.
She could tuck the memory into another unsent letter and move on.
But instead—without even thinking—she started walking.
Leo spotted her when she was halfway across the fairground.
His eyes widened, and for a second, he looked like he might bolt.
But then he smiled—a real smile, slow and uncertain—and stayed where he was.
Mae stopped a few feet away.
“Hey,” she said, breathless.
“Hey, Mae.”
They stood there, awkward and blinking and fragile.
“You’re here,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else.
He laughed quietly. “Yeah. Came back for a bit. Helping my uncle with some carpentry work.”
“That’s… that’s good.”
“Yeah.”
Silence bloomed between them, heavy and buzzing with everything they hadn’t said.
They ended up walking.
Away from the lights, the noise, the sugar-sweet smell of the fair.
Down to the river.
Down to the bridge.
Because of course they did.
Some places hold pieces of you too stubborn to forget.
The bridge looked almost the same.
A little more battered. A little more worn.
Like them.
They sat down on the edge, legs swinging above the dark water.
For a long time, neither spoke.
The river murmured below them, constant and uncaring.
Finally, Leo broke the silence.
“I never stopped writing,” he said.
Mae turned to him sharply.
“What?”
He fished into his jacket pocket, pulled out a battered, crumpled piece of paper.
It was one of his old letters, folded and unfolded so many times it was falling apart.
“I wrote you. A lot,” he said. “I just… never knew if you wanted them.”
Mae felt something crack deep inside her.
“I wrote you too,” she whispered. “Letters. Dozens. I never sent them.”
They laughed then—a broken, incredulous sound.
All that time.
All that silence.
All those words trapped in shoeboxes and pockets and spaces between heartbeats.
Leo leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the stars.
“I thought about you every day,” he said simply.
Mae closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears.
“I hated you for leaving,” she admitted.
“I hated myself for it too.”
She hugged her knees to her chest. “I was so scared,” she said. “Scared that if I reached out and you didn’t reach back—”
“I would have,” Leo said fiercely. “God, Mae. I would have.”
She shook her head. “We were kids. We didn’t know how to stay.”
“No,” he agreed. “We didn’t.”
The river kept flowing.
The stars kept spinning.
And Mae realized that the worst part wasn’t that they had loved each other.
The worst part was that they had loved each other and still gotten lost anyway.
Leo sat up, facing her.
“Do you think,” he said slowly, “if we met now—if we were new people instead of old ghosts—”
Mae smiled sadly. “I think part of me would recognize you anywhere.”
“But?”
“But we’re not those kids on the bridge anymore,” she said. “We’re different.”
He nodded, swallowing hard.
“I still love you,” he said.
She reached out, laced her fingers through his.
“I love you too,” she said. “But sometimes… love isn’t enough.”
They stayed there until the night wore thin.
Until the fair lights faded and the town slept.
Until the river whispered the truth neither of them wanted to say aloud:
That some stories don’t end because of anger, or betrayal, or even indifference.
Some stories just end.
Because growing up means outgrowing even the most beautiful things.
When they finally stood, Leo pressed something into her hand.
A paper heart.
Folded neatly.
Mae opened it.
Inside, it simply said:
Thank you.
She smiled through her tears.
“Thank you,” she echoed.
He kissed her forehead, soft and reverent.
Then they walked back toward the town together, side by side but not hand in hand.
And when they reached the crossroads, they went their separate ways without looking back.
Because sometimes, letting go is the bravest kind of love there is.
You must be logged in to post a comment.