Page 52 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Forty-Seven

Simone,

It’s been three weeks since I left Birchwood Springs.

More accurately, three weeks since I left your house.

I never actually stepped foot into town. Isn’t that strange? I lived on the edge of it—breathed its air, saw its trees—but I never let myself be in it. Not once.

Lately, I keep wondering what’s changed. If the bookstore still smells like dust and vanilla. If the flower shop still looks like pink cotton candy exploded on its front porch. Maybe it’s all different now. Or maybe it’s just me who’s changed.

The place where they’re helping me—it’s called Luna Recovery & Restoration. Sounds like a fancy hotel spa, right? It’s tucked in the heart of Silverthorne Bay, a town so small I could walk through it in under ten minutes and still have time to question every single one of my life choices.

To get in, they changed my name.

I’m not thrilled about it.

Ben Dover.

Yeah . . .

Atlas said I should be grateful they didn’t go with Willie B. Hardigan, which is apparently their go-to alias when CQR needs to send someone to a center like this one.

I want to believe him, but I’m almost sure he’s fucking with me.

Anyway, none of this is why I’m writing.

Atlas said you’d probably read a letter before you’d answer a call. Is he right? I’m not sure, but I’m more comfortable trying to put my thoughts on paper. So here I am—trying to do this the way you deserve.

I thought about starting with “I’m sorry,” but that felt cheap. Not because I’m not—I am. More than you know. But ‘sorry’ should come after understanding, not before.

So maybe this is the part where I try to explain.

Reading your letters broke something open in me. It was maybe my soul and definitely my heart. Every sentence, every memory you gave me, chipped away at the walls I built to survive.

I didn’t realize how long I’ve been running. Or how deep I buried the parts of me that used to feel. I’ve been alive, sure. Breathing, walking, punching my way through the day. But living? I haven’t done that in years.

I think I convinced myself survival was enough. That waking up angry was safer than waking up hurting. That if I kept busy—if I fought hard enough, worked long enough—I wouldn’t have to remember the versions of me I lost along the way.

Turns out, pain doesn’t forget you just because you ignore it.

This place . . . it’s not just therapy. It’s not a cure. But it’s holding up a mirror, and I hate what I see—but I’m finally seeing.

They’re working on my body, sure—stretching, stabilizing, reminding me that I’m not invincible. But more complex work is happening in my head.

Every morning, I write something down that scares me.

Yesterday, I wrote: I don’t know how to be loved if I’m not broken.

Today, I wrote: Maybe I was loved the whole time, and I just didn’t believe it.

They’re just words. But they’re mine.

And for once, I’m not hiding behind someone else’s idea of who I’m supposed to be.

I don’t expect this to fix everything. Especially not what I did to you. To us. But I want you to know I’m doing the work. The hard kind. The kind I used to mock. The kind I never thought I’d have to do because I thought pain made me strong.

Turns out, pain just makes you lonely.

I’ll write more. If you want me to.

But if this is the last letter I get to send you, I hope you’ll at least believe this:

I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.

I left because I finally do.

Yours,

Keir