Chapter 7: Love Letters in the Dark

Julian and I got back together. And honestly, I couldn’t believe my luck.

One ordinary afternoon, I took the initiative for the first time. My heart was pounding out of my chest as I hooked my arms around Julian’s neck and kissed him, not caring about anything else.

He didn’t know why I was suddenly so enthusiastic, but he kissed me back gently, his big hands stroking my hair. Even at the most emotional moment, he just held me, burying his head in my neck so I wouldn’t see his red eyes. I could feel his breath on my skin, warm and shaky.

His voice was hoarse: “Sorry, Annie. Just let me stay like this for a bit. Just a little while. Don’t be afraid.”

I felt something wet on my neck—he was quietly crying, letting out years of hidden longing that finally saw the light. He was still worried about my feelings, even then.

Right before Julian walked in, I found his diary from when he was eighteen.

Turns out, he’d liked me since his teens.

During my rebellious, lonely youth, I never thought I could be loved, so I kept searching. I didn’t like sunny days—if someone could love me through storms, I’d give them all my sincerity. But my mother’s abandonment became the reason I denied myself.

But when I turned to the last page of Julian’s diary, my eyes lingered on one line—a quote from an old writer: “Love is the moment when insecurity casts off darkness for light.” I stared at that line, letting it settle inside me.

At that moment, the insecurity that had followed me since I was a teenager suddenly vanished, like a fog lifting. On those nights when even the moon feared the dark, I shouldn’t have denied myself. Because, you see, every gust of wind, every strand of hair fluttering, was telling me: someone in this world is thinking of you, and the noise outside can never define you.

It’s a pity that while Julian spent his whole youth loving me, I wasn’t there. But now, I could finally see the real Julian—the one everyone called the best, who quietly loved me for so long. The one who was awkward with words but passionate to the point of clumsiness. The one who chose every word carefully, but wrote with conviction.

What was he writing? My stomach fluttered with nerves as I flipped to the last page, afraid and hopeful all at once.

He wrote: I pray every morning that Autumn will look at me just once today.

And that was the last line in Julian’s teenage diary.

I closed the diary and, for once, believed I could be loved.