Mara’s face softened for the first time.
“So did she.”
Cara had loved me.
Neither of us spoke after that.
I finished the remaining letters over three weeks.
Some were tender. Some were selfish. Some made me miss her so badly I could not stand it.
Others made me furious enough to leave the apartment and walk until my legs hurt.
Cara had loved me.
“Do you hate her?”
Cara had harmed me.
Both truths remained, and neither erased the other entirely.
Mara visited often, usually carrying coffee and refusing to offer easy comfort.
“Do you hate her?” she asked once.
“Sometimes.”
“Anything simpler would be a lie.”
“Do you forgive her?”
“Sometimes.”
“That sounds difficult.”
“It is.”
She nodded.
I copied every letter.
“Good. Anything simpler would be a lie.”
That answer helped more than every gentle thing people had said at the funeral.
I copied every letter, arranged them by date, and bound the copies into a private book.
The originals stayed in Cara’s trunk.
I read the book twice, then wrote an introduction I never showed anyone.
I contacted the college archives.
It began with one sentence: Love can be real and still fail people very badly.
I contacted the college archives.
They accepted one copy under restricted access, sealed for a set number of years unless I changed the terms.
I did not want strangers turning Cara’s pain into entertainment. I wanted a record showing what silence could cost when fear convinced someone that they had no safe choices left.
“Cara would hate the attention.”
Then I donated enough money to establish a small emergency fund for students facing pregnancy, serious illness, or medical hardship alone.
I named it the Open Door Fund.
Mara approved.
The first year passed without becoming easier, though it became different.
“Cara would hate the attention,” she said.
“Good thing her name is not on it.”
Mara smiled.
“She would approve.”
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