PPS: This morning I peeled an orange for myself and thought of the way you used to save me the last slice. Sweet. Imperfect. Wet with the juice of something we couldn't name.

PPS: Do you remember the way light fell through the blinds that Sunday? Like confession through teeth. Like forgiveness through a crack in the door.

After the letter was sealed, after the stamp was licked and stuck to the corner like a tiny prayer, I remembered the thing I left out— not the date, not the address, but the softest part.

No envelope this time. Just this. Just the echo.