"The One-Way Letter" -End
By R.shi
One Week Later
The wedding had passed in a blur of music, laughter, and tears. A week later, Sebastian sat alone in the quiet of his study, flipping through the box of letters and notes guests had left for him and Ava. Congratulations, blessings, and heartfelt wishes filled the papers.
He smiled faintly, touched by them all.
And then his hand paused.
At the very bottom of the stack was a plain envelope. Unmarked. Untouched.
He recognized the handwriting instantly. Evan.
Curious, Sebastian opened it slowly, expecting a letter—a message, maybe even a joke.
But inside was a single, folded paper. A poem. No greeting. No farewell. Just words.
He read:
---
Star
What am I to you? A sun, shining bright by your side,
Or a moon, comforting you through each painful tide?
To be near you—I wished for a moment to be seen,
But I knew that wish would slip by, quiet and unseen.
What am I, truly, to you? Let me give the reply:
Not the sun that guides with warmth so high,
Nor the moon that guards your tearful sky.
I am but a star—silent, distant, slight,
A quiet glimmer lost within your light.
I dim when you smile, knowing peace surrounds you,
And glow, though faintly, when sorrow has found you.
You never saw me in your joyful days,
But caught a glimpse during darker grays.
And I don’t blame you—I chose this role,
To orbit your life, never asking to be whole.
So until this star fades, scattered through space,
I’ll remain—loving you—in my quiet, hidden place.
---
Sebastian stared at the poem.
His breath caught, heart skipping a beat.
The words weren’t just words. They were… Evan.
Everything suddenly made sense—the way Evan smiled that day, the way he avoided looking too long, the way he quietly slipped away before the night even ended.
He picked up his phone with trembling fingers and dialed Evan’s number.
“Sorry. The number you have dialed is not reachable at the moment…”
Again.
“Sorry. The number you have dialed is—”
Again.
Nothing.
He let out a shaky sigh, dropping the phone onto the table. His gaze flicked toward the kitchen, where Ava was humming softly while preparing something.
He smiled.
A bittersweet, quiet smile.
Holding the poem in his hand, he whispered to himself, “So this is why you left... You wanted me to be happy.”
A small candle flickered gently beside the table.
With steady hands, Sebastian brought the poem to its flame.
The edge curled, blackened, then turned to ash.
He watched until the last of it vanished—like a star fading from view.
Then he stood, brushing his palms together, and walked into the kitchen, his voice steady.
“Love, need a hand?”
