My name was written across it: “Mattie.”

My fingers trembled as I opened it, the paper catching slightly as I unfolded it.

“This isn’t about something I did,” Nathan said. “It’s about something that’s been wrong in the way I love.”

I didn’t understand as I read the first line:

“I don’t know how I’ll survive losing you too, Mattie…”

The words didn’t feel like love. They didn’t feel comforting.

They felt final.

I looked up at Nathan.

“You wrote this… about me?”

He didn’t answer. And that silence told me everything.

My chest ached—not because of what he wrote, but because of how certain he sounded, as if he had already lived through losing me.

I realized I had stepped into a love that had already imagined its own ending.

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t demand answers. I simply stepped back, needing space to breathe.

“I need a minute.”

I grabbed my coat and walked out before Nathan could reply.

The cool air brushed against me, loosening the careful way I had pinned my hair earlier. I kept walking without direction, just putting distance between myself and what I had read.

And one thought stayed with me, impossible to shake.

Nathan was already preparing to lose me… And I had just promised to build a life with him. Why would he do that?

Without planning to, I found myself at the church.

It was empty. But inside me, everything was loud.

I sat in the front pew and opened the letter again, reading more carefully this time:

“I tried to be stronger the second time… but I wasn’t.

I thought I would have had more time.

I don’t think I’ll survive losing you too, Mattie.”

I lowered the paper slowly, my hands no longer shaking—just heavy.

It wasn’t fear of something happening to me. It was the realization that my husband was already living as if it would.

How do you love someone who is already grieving you before you’ve even had the chance to stay?

“I can’t be someone you’re already grieving, Nathan,” I whispered.

For the first time that night, I considered leaving for good. Then a voice interrupted my thoughts.

“I figured you’d come here.”

I turned.

Nathan stood a few steps away, not rushing toward me, not reaching out—just standing there as if he understood this moment wasn’t his to control.

“Did you write letters for them too?” I asked. “Your wives… before?”

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