The Secrets Between the Lines

He glanced around the quiet room, his eyes finally settling on the small wooden table tucked away in the corner—the one he hadn't dared open earlier. There, lying beneath the faded surface, were the letters. Letters from Natellie.

For a long moment, he just stared at them, his hand hovering uncertainly above the stack.

Then, slowly, he picked up one.

It was the first letter—her familiar handwriting faint but unmistakable, neat and deliberate as always:

"To Stanley, Maverick, Neville, and Joshua…"

He sank into a chair, fingers trembling slightly as he unfolded the paper.

He didn't know what awaited him inside. Pain? Truth? Regrets? Explanations?

But he was ready.

Because the past was no longer something to fear—not when it had brought him this little miracle, sleeping peacefully on the bed.

He held the letter in his hands a moment longer, his breath catching before he finally read the words aloud in his mind:

"To Stanley, Maverick, Neville, and Joshua…"

His name was second on the list, as if that mattered. As if six years of silence, of absence, could be erased by a simple salutation.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "So now you remember us?"

The handwriting was hers—graceful and unchanged, like time hadn't touched the curve of each letter. But everything else had.

It's been a long time, hasn't it?

His jaw clenched.

Six years. Six long, painful years. No calls. No messages. No trace. She vanished as if they had never existed. As if he had never existed.

A burning heat rose behind his eyes, but he blinked it away. She didn't deserve his tears—not yet.

I'm sure by now you all hate me—and honestly, I wouldn't blame you.

But he didn't hate her.

And that was the problem.

He wanted to. It would have been easier. Cleaner. Simpler than the mess she left behind. Instead, all he felt was a raw, bitter mix of frustration and hurt, locked deep inside his chest—poisoning every memory he had of her.

I disappeared without a word.

Yeah. You did.

One day, she was there—fire in her spirit, laughter in her voice, the anchor that held their whole group together. The next, she was gone. Vanished. Like she'd evaporated into thin air. No trace. No goodbye. Just ghosts and endless questions.

And now? A letter. A favor. A child.

He skimmed the next line.

I'm not with Vivi's father anymore.

His eyes narrowed. The name—whoever he was—remained absent. No details. No answers. She said she'd explain when the time was right, but Maverick wasn't sure when, or if, that time would ever come. And that uncertainty gnawed at him, making the anger rise like an iron weight in his chest.

She had trusted them with her child, but not with the truth?

My parents… they want to separate me from Vivi. They think she's a disgrace.

His grip on the letter tightened, then loosened.

Disgrace?

He'd never met the little girl—Vivi—but just knowing she existed… that she was hers… that was enough. She wasn't a disgrace. She was a part of Natellie. A piece of her.

And now, they were being asked—no, told—to protect her. To lie. To keep her safe.

I need time. Around a year…

He scoffed, the sound bitter and raw. "Of course you do." He paced the room, the paper crumpling in his fist as frustration surged through him.

Then, his eyes landed on the next line.

I told her to call you all 'Daddy.' No take-backs!

He froze mid-step.

The frustration cracked—just for a moment, a fleeting crack in his armor.

What kind of woman leaves a child and then makes a joke like that?

But beneath the anger, something else stirred. A familiar echo of her—warm, infuriating, unforgettable. That was Natellie. Masking her pain with humor. Making light of the impossible, even when the weight of it all was crushing her.

Take care of my baby.

He sat down heavily on the couch, the words pressing down on him like a weight.

She had trusted them. Even after everything—after six years of silence—she still believed they would do the right thing.

His fingers relaxed around the letter, the crumples softening.

No matter how angry he was, no matter how hurt, he wasn't going to punish a child for her mother's mistakes. Not this child.

He looked toward the quiet bedroom, where Vivi slept soundly, her tiny form barely visible beneath the soft glow of the nightlight. Her face—so much like Natellie's—was painful to look at, a mirror of a time he couldn't erase.

"I'll take care of her," he muttered, almost as a vow, as if the words themselves could bind him to something beyond the anger and confusion. "Not for you. For her."

But as he folded the letter and set it aside, his gaze turned cold again, darkening.

There was more to this. There always had been. And no matter what, he was going to get the truth—one way or another.

"You should've come to us, Natellie. We would've helped you. You knew we would've. And you still chose to disappear."

His voice dropped to a low, bitter murmur.

"One year. That's what you said."

He didn't look away from Vivi, her tiny body curled in peaceful sleep, her chest rising and falling in the soft rhythm of innocence.

"One year, Natellie. That's all you get."

His words hung in the air, heavy with a weight that felt too big to carry.

He watched her, the deep ache in his chest growing, but there was something else—something harder, clearer—nestled beneath that sorrow.

He didn't know what came next. What would happen when the year was over. When the secrets were finally dragged into the light.

But he did know this:

Vivi was the bridge.

And no matter what it took, no matter how long it took, he would follow that bridge all the way back to Natellie. To the woman who had disappeared without a trace, but had somehow left behind a piece of her—this tiny, fragile miracle.

And he wasn't going to let her fall through the cracks. Not again.