The Message She Was Never Meant to Read
She met him on a cold Tuesday in December. The kind of Tuesday where London fog clings to your coat and everything feels a bit heavier than it should.
Love is sometimes cruel
He bumped into her at a bookstore near Camden — literally bumped. She dropped her coffee on a copy of Wuthering Heights. He apologized five times in the span of two minutes, offered to buy her a new book, and walked her home just to make sure the cold hadn’t soaked through her boots.
That night, they shared hot chocolate in her tiny kitchen. And that was the start.
He was... different. He talked fast, with hands that couldn’t stay still. He played piano terribly, but passionately. He’d send her memes at 2am, and random Amazon packages with post-it notes that said things like:
“You said your toaster was dying. Here’s a fancy one. Toast something nice for me.”
By March 2020, they had their own kind of rhythm. He’d leave a book on her windowsill every Sunday morning. She’d bake muffins every Wednesday night and leave them at his door.
They hadn’t said “I love you” yet. But it was everywhere, quietly — in the things they did.
Then came the cough. Just a little one. Then a fever. He told her it was probably nothing — just a cold. “Bit of man flu,” he joked.
A week later, he stopped replying as quickly. Another week, and he stopped picking up her calls. Then, one day, a single text:
“Alice… I’m sorry. This won’t work. My parents… they don’t want us together. I can’t fight them anymore.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Blocked. Deleted. No warning. No explanation. Just a message and a hole in her chest.
She cried for weeks. Friends told her to move on. “Maybe he met someone else.” Her therapist said sometimes people show their true selves under pressure. She believed them, because it was easier than hoping for something kinder.
But something never sat right.
She kept the books he left. Even the one that still smelled like his cologne — the one she pretended she didn’t hug when no one was watching.
Two years passed.
The world moved on. Lockdowns ended. People forgot.
Until a number she didn’t recognize lit up her phone at 7:13 AM on a rainy Wednesday in June.
“Hi… is this Alice?” “Yes. Who’s this?” “It’s Emma. Tom’s sister. I… I think we need to talk.”
Emma was quiet for a while. Then she said it:
“Tom died. Two years ago. From COVID. Three days after he sent you that message.”
“He was already in the ICU when he texted you. He made me promise not to tell you. He said… he wanted to protect you.”
“He thought it would be kinder to let you think he stopped loving you than to let you watch him die.”
“We found a notebook in his drawer. Your name is on the last page.”
Alice felt her world tilt. The air left the room. She sank to the floor, phone still in her hand.
Emma offered to send a photo of the letter. But Alice said no. She wanted to hear it, in someone’s voice.
So Emma read it out loud:
“Alice, If Emma is reading this to you… I guess I didn’t make it. I wanted to say so many things. But mostly, thank you. For the hot chocolate. For every time you laughed at my bad piano. For letting me fall in love with you, even when I didn’t know how to say it. I couldn’t let you see me fade. I wanted you to remember me whole. Not with tubes, not with pale skin or tired eyes. But as the man who danced with you in the kitchen at 1am. If I had more time, I would’ve asked you to marry me. I think you would’ve said yes. I hope so. Wherever you are — toast something nice for me. Love always, Tom”
That night, Alice walked to the bookstore where they met.
The store had changed owners. But the copy of Wuthering Heights was still there — with a faint coffee stain on the corner.
She bought it.
Went home.
And cried over page 237, the one where Cathy says:
“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”