He wrote the response, but didn't send it. He left it on his desk at home in his bedroom like a trap for himself, something to catch sight of every few days which could twist his insides. He put it in the wastebasket once; fished it out again later. Rewrote it on paper that wasn't crumpled. Eventually, nearly a month later and on a day where he'd been plagued by shadows even before the sun came up, he sent it.

---

Rosalie,

It wasn't your fault. It was mine. I should have known better than to fall in love. It was only ever selfish. You deserve to move on.

That's why we don't talk.

Ezra

---