Chapter 3 The Roof and the Letter

Zara POV

The letter had been sitting in her bag for six days.

Zara knew exactly where it was. Bottom of the bag, tucked under her notebook, face down so she did not have to see her father's handwriting every time she reached for her phone. She had gotten very good at pretending it was not there.

But at one in the morning, lying on the guest bed in the Maddox house, staring at a ceiling that was not hers, she could feel it like something with a heartbeat.

She got up.

She did not think about it. She just grabbed the letter, pushed open the window, and climbed out.

The roof was her favorite thing about this house. Small and flat, just above the second floor, hidden from the street by the big oak tree. She had found it by accident three summers ago when she was looking for somewhere to breathe. Nobody else ever came up here.

She sat down with her back against the warm shingles and held the letter in both hands.

Her father's handwriting was on the front. Her name. Her address was the right address, which meant he had asked someone, which meant he had thought about it, which meant something she did not know what to do with.

She turned it over. Turned it back.

She was not afraid of him. That was not the problem. The problem was that she still wanted him to say the right thing. After everything, after seven years of wrong things and no things and silence,e some small, stupid part of her was still sitting there hoping.

She hated that part. She could not get rid of it.

She heard the window scrape.

She spun around.

Eli pulled himself through the opening and straightened up on the roof, and then went completely still when he saw her.

They stared at each other.

One second. Two. Five.

"This is my spot," she said. Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

"This is also my spot," he said. His voice was careful. Not unkind.

She turned back around. She heard him sit down,n not close, not far, somewhere in the middle, and then nothing. No questions. No small talk. Just the night around them and the sound of crickets and the distant hum of a car somewhere down the street.

She was still holding the letter.

She did not realize her hands were shaking until she looked down at them.

"You don't have to open it tonight," Eli said.

She had not told him what it was. He had not asked. He had just seen it. The way it sat in her hands. The way she could not put it down, but could not open it either.

"I know," she said.

"You don't have to open it at all."

Something about that undid her a little. Just around the edges. She pressed her lips together and looked up at the sky and counted stars the way her mom had taught her when she was small. It used to work. Tonight,t she kept losing count.

"It's from my dad," she said. She did not know why she told him. She had not planned to tell anyone.

He did not say anything for a moment. Then: "When did you last see him?"

"Seven years ago." She said it flat. As a matter of fact. The way she always said it so people would not feel sorry for her. "He left when I was ten. He sends something every once in a while. A card. Some money I don't touch. This is the first actual letter."

Silence.

She was waiting for the thing people always said. I'm sorry. That must be hard. Have you thought about reaching out? The things that were meant to help just made her feel like a problem someone was trying to solve.

Eli said none of them.

He said, "You don't have to be okay, you know."

Four words. No six. Simple words. The kind of kid who could understand.

She had heard a lot of things in seventeen years. She had heard stay strong and " You're so mature for your age and at least you have your mom. She had collected all of them and built a wall out of them and hidden behind it very successfully.

Nobody had ever said that.

You don't have to be okay.

Like it was allowed. Like the not-okay was a real option she could choose, and the world would not end.

She felt the first tear before she even knew she was crying.

She turned away fast. Pressed the back of her hand to her face. Breathed in through her nose the way she had practiced. She was not going to cry in front of a boy she had known for two days. She was absolutely not going to do that.

She did it anyway.

Not the dramatic kind of crying. Not loud. Just the quiet kind that comes from somewhere deep, the kind that has been stored up too long and finally finds a crack. Her shoulders shook. She pressed her hand harder against her mouth.

Eli did not move closer. He did not say it's okay or don't cry or any of the things that would have made her feel worse. He just stayed. Present. Solid. Like a wall that was on her side.

That made her cry harder. Briefly. And then it was over.

She wiped her face with her sleeve. She breathed. She stared at the yard below and let the night air cool her skin.

"Sorry," she said.

"Don't be."

She looked down at the letter still in her hands. She set it beside her on the roof. Not opening it. Just putting it down. Like she was allowed to not carry it for a minute.

They sat there for a long time after that. Not talking about anything important. He told her the roof had a loose shingle on the left side near the tree. She told him she knew; she had been avoiding it for three years. He almost smiled. She almost did too.

Eventually, she got cold, and he said goodnight, and they went back inside through the same window at different times without making it strange.

She got into bed. Closed her eyes.

She heard nothing outside her door.

And then in the morning, she almost missed it.

She opened the door to go brush her teeth,h and her foot nearly knocked it over. A mug. White, with a small chip on the handle, she recognized it from the kitchen cabinet. Tea, still warm somehow. Like it had been placed there at just the right moment.

No note. No knock. Just the mug.

She picked it up with both hands, stood in the doorway, and looked down the empty hallway.

She thought about the roof. About six words that had broken through something she had been building for years. About a boy who had stayed without being asked and left without making it complicated.

She held the mug against her chest.

She was seventeen years old. She was sensible. She was careful. She did not do things like fall for people she was not allowed to fall for.

She looked down the hall again.

I am in so much trouble.