Book 6: Letter from the Past

Tatiana

Angelo and I ended up in bed after our talk on the porch. It was not because we reached an understanding—we didn’t. We are still standing on opposite sides of a line neither of us is willing to cross. But I knew pushing him harder would only cause more damage.

So, I hold my tongue.

For now, keeping the peace meant swallowing my pride, locking my own thoughts away, and playing the role of someone willing to wait.

It is after midnight. Rain pounds against the windows like a warning—fierce, unrelenting. Angelo lies asleep beside me. He sleeps peacefully, unaware of the storm brewing right here next to him in this bed.

I watch him sleep for a long moment, memorizing the shape of him, the warmth of him, just in case this is the last time I lay next to him.

Sleep won’t come for me, so I reach for the tablet on my nightstand. I browse for a while—news, maps, dead ends, anything that can occupy my thoughts. Then, on impulse, I dec