Author's note: A brief update, because I really wanted to know what Beckett said in her letter.

How she would try to explain it all – the lie, the long silence, and her reaction to his confession. I honestly have no idea how this will turn out; I have no notes, nor any plan whatsoever. This short chapter will be written straight through in a single session, then published. I'll read it around the same time as you do.

Then I'll be away for a couple of weeks, travelling in Europe – but not before my age yet again increases by one, less than twenty-six hours from now.

Be well, until next we speak, and thank you for reading.

Castle went into his office and closed the door, even though the only other person in the loft was Alexis, and she was already asleep.

He poured himself a glass of whisky, sat down at his desk, and opened the envelope. It contained a few sheets of pale blue letter paper, covered in Beckett's distinctive, slightly spiky cursive handwriting. The pages smelled ever so slightly – agonisingly, maddeningly – of cherries.

He took a deep breath, and began to read.

Dear Rick,

You don't want to talk, and I understand why. I'm writing to you instead, because that's what you did. You wrote about Nikki when I wasn't ready to listen.

I'm so sorry.

You have to believe me when I say that I was going to tell you, soon. We were almost there, weren't we? Now I don't know where we are, and it's my fault.

I remember everything from the day I was shot. I never forgot. I remember what you told me. I've thought about your words every day since then.

I'm no good at this, but I'm trying. Words are your thing. Your words have saved me so many times. When my mother was killed, and so many times afterwards when I couldn't find my way back. Then again, after I was shot. Did you know that I read all the Storm books again over those three months? They kept me sane. They kept you close by.

You're wondering why I lied to you, more than once. I've asked myself that question a lot. I've even talked it over with my therapist – I see him every week, ever since I came back, and lately we mostly talk about you – and I've realised there's more than one reason.

First, I couldn't handle it at the time. Roy was dead. I felt responsible. We were facing a dead end. I was with Josh. Then I was shot, Rick. When I woke up in the hospital, I wasn't me. I wasn't even sure I was alive. I was so broken.

Later, when I was sent home to start healing, I hid myself away from you. Every single day I wanted to call you. I woke up with your name on my lips. You were in all my dreams – the nightmares too. And every day I fought myself, and somehow managed not to contact you, because I would have broken us. You have to understand that.

I would have asked you to come, even though I wasn't even a shadow of myself, and you'd have been there the same day. I know you would have. You always come when I call. And then I would have dragged you down with me. I know you would have tried, and been patient, and given me everything you knew how to give, but I would have destroyed us. I was so angry, with everyone and everything. I wasn't thinking straight, at all. Most days I wasn't even thinking.

I wanted you to be there, but I knew I wasn't strong enough to walk this line we always have. I'd have let you get close, and it would have been wrong. It would have been damaged, and out of balance, and I would have taken everything and not given anything in return (like I always do, right?) and we wouldn't have survived it.

We would have lost our always, because I wasn't me anymore. I needed to be me again. Can you understand?

Then when I came back and finally felt strong enough to see you again, I was afraid. Afraid you'd moved on. After you'd be angry. Afraid you only said it because I was dying. Most of all, afraid that whatever you saw in me before had been bled out, and wasn't there anymore.

And you were angry. I think about you walking away from me outside the bookstore a lot, too. I'd had nightmares about that kind of thing happening, and then it did. Like you saw me differently after what happened. It just seemed so much easier to keep pretending I didn't remember, so I could wait and see if you were still you, and I was still me, and we were still us. But I was going to tell you. I think I was going to tell you in the couple of weeks, even.

I know what you must be thinking now, but you're wrong. I can hear your thoughts right now.

You're thinking I turned to Josh instead of you (I broke up with him the day after you came to the hospital).

You're thinking I was embarrassed by what you said (No words have ever meant more to me, and some days I want to hear them again so badly that I feel like I can't breathe).

You're thinking I was trying to find a way to let you down gently (I was trying to find a way for you to lift me up).

You're making up stories, but now they're wrong. Like that I didn't think about you every day. Or that I didn't hear what you said, over and over in my head, and want you to say it when I was me again. Or that I didn't mean you when we talked on the swings that day.

You make such beautiful stories. Please don't tell me I took that away from you.

I'm not good with words. You're the one who's meant to do this part – the understanding, and making sense, and reaching out. I'm trying, but I don't know if it's done any good. I wish I'd talked to you sooner. I wish I'd told you before you found out. I wish things had been different. But wishing doesn't help.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

You always gave me time, and now it's my turn to do the same. I've used nearly all the words I can find, and I only have three left for you.

When you're ready – and please let it be when, not if, because you are the one thing in my life I can't lose – come and see me, and I'll say them.

Yours,

Kate