Not your scars.
Not the fire.
You.
I’m sorry it took me ten years.
Caleb.
I held the letter against my chest.
For years, I had believed the fire was the worst thing that ever happened to me.
Now I realized there had been another wound.
The belief that my scars made me less worthy of being seen.
And somehow, the boy connected to the worst night of my life had been the person who gave me one of the happiest nights of my life.
But there was still one thing I needed to know.
“Can I see him?”
The detective nodded.
“Yes.”
That afternoon, my mother drove me to the police station.
Caleb was waiting in a small room.
When I walked in, he stood.
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, he whispered,
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at him.
“I know.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I was scared.”
“I know.”
He looked down.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
I walked closer.
“Do you know what I thought last night?”
He looked up.
“I thought you were the first person in years who looked at me without seeing something wrong.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I never thought anything was wrong with you.”
