The first days without April felt like an open wound Brandy couldn't bandage.
Her absence lingered in everything—the mug she always used for coffee, the scarf she'd left draped over the back of his chair, the faint trace of her perfume clinging to his pillow. Even the spaces she never filled seemed emptier now, as though the entire world had expanded just to emphasize her distance.
Brandy moved through his apartment like a ghost, each morning heavier than the last. He went to work. He answered calls. He kept moving because stopping meant feeling the hollow ache that gnawed at him.
But at night, when the silence pressed in, he'd sit at his desk, pull open the drawer, and unfold the letter he'd written—the letter April had returned to him at the airport. He read it over and over, the ink fading slightly from his fingertips tracing the words. Each line reminded him of what they had shared and what he feared he was losing.
April Abroad
April's world, meanwhile, was bursting with color and motion.
She had landed in Florence, Italy—her long-awaited art residency finally beginning. Each day, she immersed herself in classes and workshops, surrounded by galleries filled with light and history. She walked cobblestone streets lined with centuries-old buildings, their walls whispering of lives long past. She sketched in bustling piazzas, her notebook filling with faces and architecture, the city itself a canvas that begged to be captured.
On the surface, she should have been elated. This was everything she had dreamed of—freedom, creativity, a chance to prove herself. And yet, beneath the brilliance, an ache followed her like a shadow.
Every sunset painted across the Arno reminded her of the nights she'd spent beside Brandy at the river. Every crowded café echoed with laughter that sounded too much like his. Every sketch she finished felt incomplete without him looking over her shoulder, teasing her gently, then kissing the top of her head.
She told herself she was strong enough to hold both worlds—to pursue her dream while keeping her love alive. But strength didn't soften the loneliness. It didn't stop her from reaching for her phone late at night, fingers hovering over his number before pulling back.
Time zones stretched cruelly between them. When she was waking, he was falling asleep. When she finally found a free moment to call, he was knee-deep in work or too drained to talk. Their conversations, once effortless, became rushed and broken, pixels freezing mid-laughter, voices distorted by poor signals. And though each call ended with I miss you, April always hung up feeling more hollow than before.
Brandy's Restlessness
Back home, Brandy struggled to find his rhythm without her.
Music had once been his escape, his refuge. But now even that betrayed him. Every melody bent toward April—soft refrains that reminded him of her laughter, raw chords that echoed their fights, lyrics that spilled out of him like confessions he couldn't send.
He played late into the night, his guitar balanced on his knee, the apartment filled with songs only the walls would hear.
Sometimes, when the ache grew too sharp, he walked the riverbanks where they had once sat together, staring up at the stars. The water shimmered in the moonlight, just as it had the night he first confessed his love. But without April, the stars felt cold, distant.
He found himself writing again—not just one letter, but dozens. Some short, some pages long. None of them sent. They piled in his drawer, each one an attempt to bridge the distance, each one failing to capture the enormity of what he felt.
April's Loneliness
April tried to lose herself in her work. She painted in colors brighter than she felt, sketched lines steadier than her hands. Her instructors praised her, her fellow artists admired her dedication, but at night, when she returned to her small apartment overlooking the square, her chest ached with quiet longing.
One evening, she sat by her window, watching the world move below. Couples strolled hand in hand, laughter rising from the cafés. She touched the pendant Brandy had once given her—a simple silver heart on a chain—and closed her eyes.
Memories flooded back: the way his hand felt in hers, the warmth of his smile when she surprised him with her own art, the weight of his gaze that made her feel seen in a way no one else had managed.
Tears slipped down her cheeks before she realized she was crying. She brushed them away quickly, scolding herself. "This is what you wanted," she whispered into the night. "Don't ruin it now."
But the truth pressed heavier each day: what was the worth of a dream, if the cost was losing the love that made her life feel whole?
Crossing Signals
Their lives became a series of half-connections.
April sent postcards Brandy never received. Brandy sent late-night texts April found only after waking, when his words were already hours old. They spoke in fragments—How was your day?I miss you.I love you. But the deeper conversations, the ones that might have soothed their fears, slipped through the cracks of time and distance.
Once, during a call, the connection froze just as Brandy whispered, I need you here. By the time the screen unfroze, his face was gone, the line dropped.
April sat staring at her reflection on the blank screen, her heart pounding. She whispered back into the silence, "I need you too."
But he couldn't hear it.
The Ache of Distance
Weeks turned into months.
Brandy marked the days on a calendar, each one a small wound. He kept himself busy—work, friends, late nights playing music—but no distraction lasted long. His friends noticed the way his laughter faltered, the way his eyes wandered, distant.
"You okay, man?" one asked him one night.
Brandy forced a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
But tired wasn't the word. Hollow was closer. Haunted, maybe.
Across the ocean, April tried to convince herself she was thriving. She posted photos of her sketches online, smiling in pictures with fellow artists. To everyone else, she looked radiant, fulfilled. But every smile felt like a mask. Every post felt incomplete without Brandy standing beside her.
Late at night, she reread his letter, the one she had discovered in his desk. His words became her anchor, reminding her that what they shared wasn't fragile—it was real, and it was worth fighting for.
Yet even the strongest anchor couldn't erase the distance.
A Shared Longing
One night, as the seasons shifted, they both found themselves awake at the same time—Brandy under a quiet, starlit sky; April at her window, listening to church bells echo across Florence.
Almost at the same moment, they reached for their phones.
Their call connected, and for once, the signal was clear.
"Hey," April whispered, her voice trembling with relief.
"Hey," Brandy breathed back, his chest tightening at the sound of her.
For a long moment, neither spoke. They just listened—to the sound of each other's breathing, to the heartbeat hidden in the pauses.
Finally, Brandy said softly, "I don't know how much longer I can do this."
April's throat closed. "I know."
Silence again, heavy and tender. Then April whispered the words she had been too afraid to say: "I think about coming back. Every day."
Brandy closed his eyes, his hand tightening around the phone. "Then come back. Please. Come back to me."
Her tears slipped silently down her cheeks. "Soon," she whispered. "I promise."
Neither of them said goodbye when the call ended.
They never did.