behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Epilogue 2

MILLIE

July 26th

I'm not great at this. You know that. I'm better at showing up than writing things down, better at touches than speeches, but something about this morning feels like it needs a letter. Something just for you.

I probably won't even give it to you. I'll fold it up, tuck it into the back of one of your old photo albums, the ones you've filled with messy snapshots and sticky notes and small moments only we would understand. Maybe you'll find it one day. Maybe not. But I had to write it anyway.

It's still early. The sun hasn't fully climbed over the ocean yet, but the sky's got that soft pink-blue tint I know you'd love to capture—if you weren't busy snoring into my shoulder.

We're getting married in the middle of a Florida summer—because of course we are. The heat is already clinging to everything, the kind that makes your shoulders shine and your cheeks glow. The kind you hate unless we're on the beach at golden hour. But today, you won't care. Because your eyes will be locked on mine, and nothing else will matter. I know it. I can already feel it.

And I know your mom will be there.

I know it in the breeze that rolls in from the gulf, in the way the sunlight catches the corner of the sheets, in the way you sighed in your sleep like you were saying yes to something in a dream. I see her every time you talk about the stars. Every time you touch your camera like it's holy. Every time you smile like the world is just a little bit softer than it used to be. She's in your hands. She's in your heart. She's here.

I promise you, baby—she wouldn't miss this day. Not for anything.

You're curled into me like you always are in the mornings, like your body knows mine even before your mind wakes up. One hand splayed over my ribs, your legs tangled up with mine under the sheet, your hair tickling my collarbone in a way I should probably find annoying, but don't.

We weren't supposed to do this. Everyone says it's bad luck to see each other before the ceremony. But if this is what bad luck looks like—your sleepy breath on my skin, your fingers twitching with dreams you'll probably tell me about in five hours while you wear a white dress and try not to cry—then I'll take it.

If this is bad luck, I'll die right here, Harper, holding you like this.

You already know all of this, but I need to say it anyway. I need you to have it in words, on paper, in ink. Because you deserve that. You deserve everything.

You walked into my life with nothing but a broken heart and a hundred boxes of mismatched clothes and no idea where to put your pain. You didn't even have a bed—just a soft smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, and a camera bag you clutched like a lifeline.

You were two doors down, and then one door down, and then you were just... there. In my kitchen. In my room. In my space. In my life. Our first apartment, before you—it was grey. I didn't even notice until you brought color into it. Into me.

You made my world warmer just by stepping into it. I didn't know it could be like this—easy and hard, quiet and loud, chaotic and still. You let me love you when you weren't sure love was even real. You let me see the softest parts of you when all you'd ever known was leaving.

You taught me how to be patient. How to listen. How to hold someone without trying to fix them. You gave me everything without asking for anything in return.

I've watched you grieve. I've watched you rebuild. I've held your hand through anniversaries you didn't speak out loud. I've laid beside you while you whispered memories of your mom into my chest. I've seen the ache in your eyes on quiet mornings when the coffee tastes a little too bitter, and still—you smile. You fight for joy. You make space for love even when it hurts.