CHAPTER 17 The Night He Didn’t Knock

He didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

Liam had left the letter at her door just before midnight, the ink still damp where his hand had hesitated as if words could tremble the way people do. He’d stood there for a full minute after slipping it under, breathing in the faint trace of her presence that lingered in the hallway. The scent of jasmine and something warmer the way memory sometimes smells like belonging.

He could’ve knocked. He almost did.

But almosts had already broken too much between them.

So he walked away.

The street outside was soaked in rain, silver puddles swallowing the reflections of passing headlights. He walked with his hands deep in his coat pockets, shoulders drawn up against the wind, as if he could fold himself small enough to escape what he’d done or what he hadn’t.

For months he’d told himself he was giving her space. That silence was the only apology he had left.

But silence was a coward’s kind of mercy.

And he was tired of it.

He reached his car, opened the door, and sat there without turning the engine on. The rain drummed softly against the windshield. The wipers squeaked once  an accidental, lonely sound. He pressed his palms to the steering wheel and whispered, “That’s it. You did what you had to.”

But it didn’t feel like enough.

He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Images of her  Amara  flickered behind his eyelids: her laughter in the kitchen, her hair brushing against his arm when she leaned over him to read something, her silence the day she left. The silence had been the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

He could still remember her last words:

“I need to find peace, and you’ve become the noise.”

At the time, he’d wanted to argue. To promise her he could change. But what could he say when she was right? He had become the noise  impatient, jealous, always trying to fix what wasn’t broken just because he didn’t understand how to rest in stillness.

So he’d let her go. Or pretended to.

Months passed. He buried himself in work, in half-hearted nights out, in conversations that never really landed anywhere. People kept saying he looked better that he’d moved on. But the truth was simpler: he’d just learned how to ache quietly.

Tonight was supposed to be closure.

The letter was supposed to end it.

But as he sat there in the car, his chest felt heavier than ever as if words had weight, and he’d carried too many without ever setting them down properly.

His phone buzzed.

It was Noah his oldest friend.

“Man, you awake?” the text read.

He typed back, Yeah. Can’t sleep.

“Bar’s still open,” Noah replied. “You look like someone who needs to stop thinking.”

Liam stared at the message for a moment, then sighed. Maybe distraction was mercy, too.

The bar was quiet  dim lights, old songs playing through slightly crackling speakers. The kind of place where regret came to drink quietly. Noah was already there, nursing a glass of whiskey.

Liam slid into the booth.

“You look like hell,” Noah said.

“I feel like it,” Liam muttered.

“Let me guess  her?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Noah leaned back. “You saw her again?”

“Not exactly.” He stared at his glass, tracing the rim with his thumb. “I left her a letter.”

Noah exhaled slowly, as if he’d been expecting that. “Did you talk to her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I meant it when I said goodbye,” he said quietly. “But I also meant it when I said I’d always care.”

Noah studied him for a long moment. “You still love her.”

Liam gave a hollow laugh. “Love doesn’t just switch off. It just… learns how to wait in silence.”

They sat there for a while, the hum of the bar wrapping around them.

After a moment, Noah spoke again. “You ever think about what you’d say if she gave you five minutes? No letters, no filters just you and her?”

Liam looked up. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yeah. Every damn day.”

“What would you say?”

He hesitated, then swallowed hard. “I’d tell her I was scared. That I thought control meant care. That I mistook holding on for holding tight. And that when she left, I didn’t chase her not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew I’d only hurt her more if I did.”

Noah nodded, silent.

Liam took a sip of whiskey, the burn grounding him. “You know, the night she left, I thought I’d never forgive her for walking away. But now… I realize she didn’t walk away from me. She walked toward herself. I was just in the way.”

The words surprised even him. But they felt true  finally, painfully true.

He exhaled, shoulders easing just a little.

Noah smiled faintly. “Sounds like you’re finally growing up.”

“Feels more like breaking open,” Liam said. “But maybe that’s the same thing.”

The bar lights flickered; the old clock on the wall ticked toward 2 a.m.

When they stepped outside, the rain had stopped. The air was heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and possibility.

They walked in silence for a while. Then Noah said, “You think she’ll read it?”

“She will,” Liam said softly. “But that’s not the point. The point is  I finally said it, even if she never answers.”

They reached his car. Noah clapped him on the shoulder. “Then maybe it’s time to start forgiving yourself too.”

Liam smiled faintly. “Working on it.”

When he got home, the sky was already paling at the edges  dawn breaking through gray clouds. He kicked off his shoes, sat on the couch, and stared out the window.

Across the street, someone’s curtain fluttered. A woman watering plants, humming quietly.

For a second, he thought about calling Amara. Just to say thank you for the hurt, for the lessons, for everything that had shaped him into someone capable of gentleness again.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he took out his notebook and began to write.

“I think love is less about staying and more about not ruining each other on the way out.

Some goodbyes are just softer forms of I love you.”

He stopped, let the pen rest.

Outside, the city was waking cars, birds, a baby crying in some apartment nearby. Life, unpausing.

And under that sound, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time  quiet acceptance.

Not the kind that comes after you stop loving, but the kind that lets you love without needing to possess.

He smiled to himself, tired but lighter. Somewhere out there, she was probably sitting by her window too, coffee in hand, listening to the same dawn.

Same city.

Different skies.

Peace, finally shared  even from miles apart