I held the notebook in my hands as I sank onto the edge of the studio table, the weight of it heavier than it should have been. Each corner was worn, each crease in the leather telling its own story. I traced the spine with my thumb, almost reverently, remembering every word Cole had written, every confession, every fragment of himself he had left on these pages. The letters were more than ink on paper—they were him. And maybe, in some quiet corner of my soul, I had been waiting for the day I could hold them without feeling crushed.

I opened the first page again, the familiar slant of...