Page 58 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

Dear Cole,

I ’m sitting on the floor of my new apartment, where the rent is so cheap the heat only sputters out in uneven waves. It’s freezing in here, and I’m shaking—but I’m not sure it’s from the cold.

It’s taking everything in me not to break down and call you.

Not to beg you to come find me. To save me one last time.

But I won’t.

Because I can’t.

I love you, Cole. God, I love you more than I know what to do with.

But you were right.

You warned me about what this path would cost. About how it would take real courage to live loud, to live honestly, to stop hiding behind what’s comfortable or expected.

You said I’d need strength to stop pretending. To let the world burn and not run to put out the flames.

And I swore I could do it.

I lied.

I wasn’t strong enough to hold you the way you needed me to.

I wasn’t brave enough to choose us.

And if I ever find someone who loves me half as hard, half as recklessly as you did… I’ll know I’ve settled.

Also, you were right about something else:

My poems were never meant to be whispered in dim-lit cafés.

They’ve always belonged on stages, in melodies, with twangy guitars and voices that bleed.

They’ve always been country love songs.

You saw it before I did.

I wish I would’ve warned you?—

That I’d miss you like this.

That it would hurt this much.

Always,

Emily

I reread the letter. Redraft it ten more times.

But no matter how I rearrange the words, they never hold the weight of what I feel.

Not fully.

So I hold it over the flame of my lighter.

Watch the edges curl, blacken, and disappear.

And I don’t dare write it again.