~Quinn~

"You kept one, didn't you?"

The question comes out at 2:37 AM, my fingers hovering over the send button for a full minute before I delete it.

I can't sleep. Again.

Instead, I'm lying in bed thinking about the shoebox Noah grabbed from the treehouse in my memory—the one filled with letters he said were "private." Letters written to someone who "doesn't exist anymore."

What if that someone was me?

I roll over, pulling my comforter up to my chin, and stare at the ...