My missing “ex” sent a letter to my new home, what should I do?

I’m usually not the type to do this but i really need some advice on what to do here? I'm at my wits end and need an outside opinion. I grew up in a shitty town, with shitty parents. They were real bible thumpers and well…were not the kindest when it came to me expressing my creativity. They believed painting to be a method of worship. That if your paintings were not depicting God, then it was nothing more than blasphemy. Any time they caught me experimenting with any art, from doodles to full pictures, I was given the end of my fathers studded belt-Which In his own words “Could beat the devil out of anyone he needs it to.”

To most this sounds horrible, but it was my life. As shitty as it was, I survived. I was 13 when I met her, Angel Garcia. She was perfection in human form. She helped me cope with the difficulties that life threw at me. She was the only one who seemed to truly get me. The only one to express love unconditionally.

At the age of 16 we decided to run away together. It was the best choice I would've ever made, and if I had to, I'd do it 100 times over. She made it so much easier, knowing I had her by my side helped me power through some of the hardest things life had the audacity to throw at me. We had been together for a little over 6 years at this time, hopping from town to town-looking for any place to call home. A few days after my 19th birthday, she disappeared into the night. leaving me alone in the little apartment that we had been renting in a town called Willows Dwelling. It was a heartache I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy.

It was so bad that even being in the apartment caused my heart to ache, making me move out a few days later- skipping town quickly after. It felt like my world was caving in, and there was nothing I could do about it. I had no purpose anymore, so I threw myself into the one thing I knew-art. I painted every day until my fingers bled. I was always crying at that point and I put those tears into my art. Eventually this picked up, and I was able to make a career out of it.

That leads us to now, after a few hours of painting and crying I was laying on the floow. Swiftly I got up, my throat sore from my loud tears and lack of oxygen. the walk to the kitchen felt shameful, this was the third time that i had almost passed out from crying while painting. Walking into the kitchen, I picked up a glass off of the counter, turning the faucet, letting the cold soothing liquid fill my cup. Quickly I took a few gulps, alleviating the burning in my throat. That’s when I saw it. Like snow landing on rock. A white envelope sat against my hardwood floor, starkly contrasting the dark wood. Confusion swept my mind, gate security would’ve brought me any mail I had delivered. Walking over to the phone mounted on my wall I dialed the front gate.

“Hey, this is Burch, Did I have any mail delivered?” I asked cautiously

”No sir we don’t have any mail for you at the moment” spoke the gate receptionist. I hung on those words, befuddlement filling every crevice of his frontal lobe.

“Oh, ok thanks” He responded sharply, hanging up the phone as swiftly as I had picked it up. Caution welled up in my chest. But it was only a letter. How bad could it be? Walking over and bending down I grabbed it. Inspecting the envelope front and back, it had no discernible features, though the paper seemed unnaturally clean. It felt sterile in its cleanliness. But I quickly brushed it off. Walking back into the kitchen I went, opening a drawer, and grabbing a paint-stained letter opener. With the grace and precision of a disgruntled hedgehog, I opened the envelope. Quickly I grabbed the letter from inside the envelope and unfolded it.

Jeremiah It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I wonder if you still paint when your world gets too cold. I still remember how you'd lose yourself to the canvas, like it was the only thing that ever really understood you. I don’t know what you’re doing now or where your life has taken you, but there’s something I need to ask. Come back to Willows Dwelling. I know how that sounds. I know it’s been years, but I'm staying in the same little apartment. It’s still here, waiting. So am I. There’s so much I want to say to you — not in a letter— but face to face. Just you and me. I hope you’ll come. —Angel

The name caused my breath to hitch in my throat. The memories of us together…the faint sound of church bells rang in the distance, but there were no churches near me? Quickly I snapped out of my stupor and began to look around. My home didn’t feel much like a home. Paintings lined the wall in my trauma and ailments. The corridors felt too long, stretching into my loneliness. it felt isolating being in here, even on the rare occasions that i had someone over. But could I trust her again? What’s stopping her from leaving again? A slew of questions entered my mind like a whirlwind. They spiraled until I felt like I would go insane. I knew there was only one way to answer these questions but I felt…scared. I didn't want to be hurt again. But I didn't want to miss out on the opportunity of reconciliation. So here I am now, what should I do? Should I take the chance on this? Or should I leave it alone? Is there even any point in me asking? Because it feels like I don't have a choice in the matter. I know what im going to do, i know its stupid but that isnt going to stop me. My only question is, should i really go?