Page 142 of Lighting the Lamp
I want to grab it and tear it open so I can drink in every word. I want to hear his voice in my head again, even if it’s just ink onpaper. God, I’ve missed him so much it’s turned into something physical, a constant ache low in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. My fingers twitch like they’re ready to reach for it, but I curl them into my palms instead.
“You gonna take it, or should I read it to you out loud?”
Ramona’s words are gentle, but they still land heavy, pushing up against every defense I’ve been trying to keep in place. I can’t look at her for long, so my gaze shifts to Momma. She studies me for a beat—not just looking, but seeing right through me—before speaking in that voice she uses when she wants to cut straight to the truth.
“Baby, sometimes you’ve got to face the thing you’re scared of most if you ever want to feel better again.”
The envelope feels impossibly heavy when Ramona presses it into my hand. The paper is still warm from her touch, but my skin tingles like I’m holding something alive. For a second, I think I might drop it. If I open it and the words inside are an ending, then it’s over. Not just the ache of missing him, but the fragile, stupid hope I’ve been nursing like a secret. The what-ifs have been chewing me alive for weeks. I’ve been clinging to the last sound of his voice, the last look in his eyes, because at least then I could pretend he still wanted me there and that he was still mine.
My fingers are already working at the flap before I can stop them. The sound of paper tearing feels too loud, too final. This is it. The moment I either get him back… or lose him for good.
The letter slides free, the paper soft and slightly creased, like it’s been folded and unfolded a dozen times. My hands tremble as I open it, the black slant of his handwriting spilling across the page like he couldn’t slow down once he started.
Alise,
I don’t know where to start.
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding punches out of me so hard I rock forward, my knees almost giving out. My chest tightens so fast it’s almost a cramp, heat searing up my throat. God, I can hear his voice—low, rough, and a little uncertain—like he’s saying the words out loud as he writes. My fingers tremble against the paper, the edges cutting into my skin like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.
I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks, and everything sounds wrong. But here’s the only thing that matters: I didn’t tell you because I thought it would scare you away,
My vision blurs instantly, hot pressure building behind my eyes until I swear something’s going to crack.
But losing you hurt worse.
The raw, ugly sound that rips out of me is something between a sob and a gasp that makes both Ramona and Momma freeze. I clutch the paper tighter, knuckles aching, terrified that if I loosen my grip for even a second, it’ll dissolve into nothing, and I’ll lose him all over again.
I won’t dress it up or pretend I handled it well. I didn’t. I was a coward. I let my fear decide for me, and I hate myself for it.
He never talks about hating himself, at least not to me, and the words make my stomach twist. My mind betrays me with flashes of him sitting alone in that sterile hospital room, broad shoulders hunched, eyes hollow, and nothing but the beeping machines keeping him company because he thought locking me out was the kindest thing he could do.
I wanted to believe I could protect you from the worst parts of me. I didn’t realize that in doing that, I was shutting you out of the best parts, too.
The tears come hot and relentless now, sliding down my cheeks before I can even lift a shaking hand to wipe them away. My vision warps, the ink swimming in front of me, but I can’t stop reading.
You said you can’t fight me into trusting you. You were right. Trust has to be given, not earned through battles. So, this is me, handing it over, no shields and no excuses.
My heart feels like it’s being pried open with bare hands, each word dragging something jagged through me.
I’m still scared. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.
By the time I reach the end, I’m doubled over the paper, clutching it to my chest like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. His voice is everywhere. In the ink, in the space between my ribs, and in the ache that’s taken over my entire body.
I straighten, my pulse pounding hard in my ears, the letter still warm from my hand and damp in spots from my tears. I can’t stay, can’t breathe, not while Beau’s somewhere thinking I might not want him.
“Lis…” Ramona whispers, but I’m already moving.
The chair scrapes back with a screech that makes me wince. My legs feel like they’re operating on muscle memory alone, the rest of me still trapped in his words.
Momma steps into my path, her eyes full of questions I can’t answer right now. “At least shower and change, baby?—”
“I don’t care,” I choke out, voice thick. “I just need to see him.”
Before I even realize I’ve grabbed them, I clutch the creased envelope in one hand and my keys in the other. The front door bangs shut behind me, the sound sharp in the heavy evening air. My breath comes fast, shallow, like I’m trying to outrun the ache in my chest.
Every step to my car feels both too slow and too fast. My fingers fumble with the handle, the paper rustling like it knows the urgency, too. I slide behind the wheel, hands shaking so badly I have to take a second before starting the engine.The world outside my windshield is a blur of streetlights and shadow, my only thought pounding like a drum: Get to Beau.
The first ten minutes are a blur, my mind still replaying his words in a loop I can’t break. I picture him sitting alone to write them, the weight in his eyes, the way his hands must’ve trembled when he set those truths down in ink. The letter feels like it carries his pulse now, fragile and faltering, beating through every line.Half an hour in, the sky deepens to indigo, the road ahead swallowing me in long stretches of dark and headlights. My body vibrates with restless energy, my knee bouncing against the seat. What if I’m too late? What if he’s decided the letter was his goodbye? I push harder on the gas, ignoring the sting in my eyes and the growing tension in my shoulders.
