Ruha didn’t sleep that night.
She tried—curled beneath the blanket Tadan had left on her couch, with the ghost of his scent still clinging to the fabric. But sleep wouldn’t come. Not with Danam’s voice still echoing in her head.
"She’s good at running."
He wasn’t wrong.
She had run from cities, from people, from truths. But the worst part? She had run from herself—from the version of Ruha that still believed love was something you earned by enduring pain.
At 3:12 a.m., she sat at her kitchen table with a cold cup of tea, staring at the small wooden box she hadn’t opened in three years. Her hand hovered over the lid.
Inside were the pieces she had left behind.32Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6Gc6jW1w6R
A photograph.32Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeSJ6sJ5A6G
A ticket stub.32Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwjG2C23C2u
And a letter.
Unsent. Unforgiven. Unread.
To: Danam32Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡK7iJ0zzRJG
From: Ruha
She had written it after the last fight. After he shattered the mirror and told her love didn’t need rules. After she realized she couldn’t fix someone who didn’t think they were broken.
The letter shook in her hands now.
She didn’t notice the knock at the door until it came a second time—soft, but certain.
Ruha stood slowly, heart in her throat. She opened it.
“Tadan,” she breathed, surprised.
He looked like he hadn’t slept either. Hair messy, hoodie zipped halfway up, eyes full of quiet worry.
“I couldn’t stop thinking,” he said. “About what you didn’t say.”
Ruha stepped aside, letting him in. For a moment, she forgot the box, the letter, the ache in her chest.
“I want to tell you,” she said. “Everything. But it’s ugly.”
“I’m not here for pretty,” Tadan replied. “I’m here for truth.”
And just like that, something cracked open in her.
She led him to the couch, hands trembling as she placed the letter in his lap. “I wrote this for him. But maybe… maybe it’ll tell you more than I can.”
Tadan read it in silence.
His face didn’t twist. He didn’t flinch. But his hands curled slowly into fists.
When he looked at her, his voice was low. “He hurt you.”
Ruha nodded.
“And you still carry it like it’s your fault.”
She blinked. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” he said, firmer now. “It’s not.”
A pause.
Then Tadan leaned forward, eyes locking with hers. “You don’t have to tell me everything tonight. But I’m not leaving, Ruha. Not until you know what it feels like to be safe.”
And for the first time in years, she let herself believe him.
But outside, in the shadows beyond the streetlamp, someone watched.
Danam.
Phone pressed to his ear. Eyes colder than winter rain.
“She gave him the letter,” he muttered. “It’s starting.”
On the other end, a voice replied, calm and cruel:32Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6YMycQrJ9s
“Then it’s time we remind her what she forgot.”
