The Last Letter I Found in His Jacket — PART II

I didn’t sleep that night.

Marco’s letter stayed on the bedside table like it was watching me.

Every time I closed my eyes, I heard paper unfolding.

In the morning, I went back to the jacket.

I don’t know why.

Maybe I was hoping there was nothing else.

Maybe I was hoping there was everything else.

I checked every pocket carefully this time.

Empty.

Until I found the lining.

A small tear inside the fabric, like it had been stitched poorly.

My fingers slipped inside.

And touched something folded again.

My stomach dropped.

Another piece of paper.

Smaller.

Tighter.

Different handwriting this time.

More rushed.

“If you found this, it means I didn’t stop at just one version.”

I froze.

One version?

My hands started shaking.

I unfolded it slowly.

“There are things I never told you because I didn’t want them to become real.”

I sat down on the floor again.

Same place as yesterday.

Like the apartment was pulling me back there.

“I used to write letters to you I never sent. Then I started rewriting them. Again and again.”

I looked at the first letter on the table.

Then back at this one.

Same man.

Same handwriting.

Different truth.

“Some versions of me stayed. Some left. Some of me is still trying to decide.”

I laughed nervously.

It didn’t feel like a joke.

It felt like confusion turning into memory.

“If you’re reading this, you’ve already picked up the version where I left.”

My throat tightened.

What did that even mean?

“There was another version where I stayed. Where I didn’t get on that trip. Where I didn’t die.”

I stared at the wall.

The air felt wrong.

Not scary.

Just… heavy.

Like something unfinished was sitting in the room with me.

“I think you’ve been living with the wrong ending.”

I stood up too fast.

The chair scraped behind me.

“Stop,” I whispered.

As if he could hear me.

As if paper could listen.

“I tried to leave you peace. But peace is not what I left behind.”

I opened the wardrobe.

His shirts were still there.

Neatly folded.

Like nothing had changed.

But suddenly I couldn’t tell what was real anymore.

Which memories were mine.

Which ones I was reading into existence.

The final line on the paper was shorter than the rest.

Almost calm.

“If you ever feel like I’m still here… it’s because I am. Just not in the same way.”

The apartment phone rang.

I didn’t move.

It rang again.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

Silence returned instantly.

But now it felt different.

Like it was waiting.

I looked at the jacket one last time.

And I swear—

the fabric felt warm.

Like someone had just been wearing it.