It was the first time in a long while that Paris felt lonely to Elio.
Not just quiet.
Lonely.
The kind of lonely that sinks into your bones like a cold bath and whispers, She's not coming back tomorrow.
He still went about his days.
He taught his students. He cooked the same pasta he once made for her. He still left her tea mug on the counter, not out of habit, but in stubborn hope.
And every Sunday morning, he wrote her a letter.
But he never sent it.
---
Letter 1: April 6
Aurélie,
I saw a girl today with your coat and nearly called out. Isn't that funny? You've only been gone two weeks, and I already see ghosts of you everywhere.
Paris doesn't feel the same.
Maybe it never will again.
—E.
---
She hadn't written back in days.
Not that she had to. There was no agreement. No promises. Just that look she gave him when she said, I still believe in us.
He clung to it.
Like a shipwrecked sailor clings to the last plank of a burning ship.
---
Meanwhile, in a coastal town Elio had never heard of, Aurélie began again.
She found a tiny flat above a bookstore owned by an old woman named Margaux who didn't ask questions.
Aurélie liked that.
She painted. Drew. Drank coffee in oversized mugs and learned how to bake bread, badly.
She stopped wearing makeup.
She stopped checking the time.
But she never stopped thinking about him.
Every cloud that rolled over the hills. Every street musician who strummed a minor chord. Every letter she didn't send.
She carried Elio like a song she didn't know how to sing anymore.
---
Letter 2: April 13
Aurélie,
Do you remember the jazz bar on Rue de Charonne? I went last night. Alone. The man played "Blue in Green." I think I cried. I'm not sure. The lights were low enough that it didn't matter.
Funny how music remembers what we try to forget.
I'm doing okay, by the way. I even started running again.
But my feet keep bringing me past your old art school.
I don't know what that means.
—E.
---
One evening, Elio wandered into a secondhand bookstore.
He wasn't looking for anything.
But something pulled him toward the poetry section. Between pages of a worn-out Neruda collection, he found an old Polaroid photo.
Of a girl with eyes like storms.
It wasn't Aurélie.
But it reminded him of her.
He bought the book, tucked the photo inside, and brought it home.
Then he sat at his desk and wrote another letter.
---
Letter 3: April 20
Aurélie,
You told me once that the saddest thing in the world is a window without light.
I finally understand.
The apartment is still full of you. Your scarf is still on the chair. Your shampoo is still in the bathroom. I can't throw it out. It feels like betrayal.
But I don't want to move on.
Not yet.
I don't want someone else to know the way your laugh sounds when you're half-asleep.
Or how you dip fries in mustard.
I know you're trying to breathe. I know this isn't goodbye.
But some nights, it feels like the final chapter was ripped out.
—E.
---
Aurélie read the unsent drafts he shared by accident — poems he never published but left in an open notebook in their Google Drive. That's how she knew he still thought of her.
She didn't write back.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because she didn't know what she would say.
How do you respond to someone who's still holding your heart gently — while you're busy trying to figure out if you deserve to hold it back?
---
Weeks passed.
Spring gave way to the first heat of early summer. Paris bloomed wildly.
So did the town where Aurélie lived.
She began helping at the bookstore. Learned the names of the locals. Drew sketches of people without ever asking their names.
Sometimes, she'd sit at the edge of the dock, feet dangling over the water, eyes fixed on the horizon.
And once, just once, she whispered:
"Elio."
---
Letter 4: May 4
Aurélie,
This one's different.
I think I'm okay now.
Not because I've stopped loving you. That's not possible.
But because I've started loving myself again.
I went to that tiny café near the river — the one where you made me try fig tarts for the first time. They still taste like your smile.
I met someone yesterday. Not in the romantic way. Just someone who reminded me that people are still beautiful.
I hope you're finding that too, wherever you are.
Take your time.
But don't forget the way home.
—Elio
---
Aurélie finally wrote back.
No preface.
No apology.
Just one line.
> You're still the place I measure all other places against.
---
That night, Elio didn't sleep.
He sat on the rooftop of their apartment building, legs dangling over the edge, the city blinking beneath him.
He read her message twenty-seven times.
And he didn't respond.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he understood now:
Sometimes silence is a kind of love, too.
---
In the town where no one knew her name six weeks ago, Aurélie stood before a blank canvas.
She hadn't painted Elio's face in weeks.
She wasn't trying to move on from him.
She was trying to move toward herself.
But now, for the first time, she felt ready.
She dipped her brush in soft blue.
And began to paint the sky he always sent her.
Not as a memory.
But as a promise.
---
One afternoon in early June, a letter arrived for Elio.
Handwritten.
No return address.
No fancy envelope.
Just his name.
Inside was a small sketch.
Of two cups of coffee.
One full.
One waiting.
And a note:
> Maybe we're not finished. Maybe we're just finally beginning.
---
Elio didn't cry.
He smiled.
Then he stood up, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the door.
Not to chase her.
But to follow the thread of something that never quite broke.