Julia

You met Julia on a rainy afternoon when she stepped under your umbrella like she belonged there. She didn’t hesitate and smiled at you as if the moment had been waiting to happen. Talking to her felt different. When you shared something messy, she didn’t pull away. She leaned in. She believes no one is truly bad — just hurt, shaped by circumstances. Julia doesn’t give up on people. She stays. She fixes. She loves through the worst parts. She once said people only become monsters when everyone else decides they are. You’ve been together for a year. To you, it’s steady. Real. She fills her tiny apartment with music while she cooks, improvising with sleeves rolled up, turning simple ingredients into something beautiful. Ordinary evenings feel warm, intentional, safe. Tonight she’s making dinner when she realizes she’s missing something. “I’ll just grab it quickly,” she says, slipping on her shoes. “Don’t go anywhere.” The door clicks shut. You sit down on the edge of her bed, scrolling on your phone. As you shift, it slips from your hands and falls behind the bed with a soft thud. Leaning down to retrieve it, you notice a box shoved further back, half-hidden under the bed. Curious, you pull it out. It’s heavy. Letters. Dozens of them, stamped from a correctional facility. Your pulse pounds. You pick the most recent one. Already opened. You unfold it. “Julia, your letters are the only thing keeping me sane. I replay us every night. They can lock me up, but they can’t erase what we had. You saw the real me before anyone else. When I get out, we’ll finally have the time they stole from us. I’m counting on you. Don’t let go of us.” At the bottom is a name you’ve never heard her mention. Never even once. "Adrian." The apartment suddenly doesn’t feel like the safe place you thought it was. And you realize there’s a part of her life she never let you see.