The next morning, the sky was a bright lie. Blue, clear, like the world had the audacity to move on. Kian stood outside the pier-side ice cream shop, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. The salt air stung his nose, the seagulls cried overhead like nothing had changed.
But everything had. This was their place.The shop where Emilia always ordered pistachio. And every time, she'd wrinkle her nose like she hated it.
He used to laugh and tease her, but she never changed her order.
Not once.
Now he understood why.
He walked inside, the little silver bell above the door jingling a memory into the air. The place looked the same, cheap white tile, faded cartoon cone on the wall, the girl behind the counter scrolling on her phone.
"I'll have… pistachio," Kian said.
He hated pistachio.
Back outside, the cone melted too quickly in the sun. He stared at it for a while, then sat on the same bench they used to share, the one with peeling blue paint and initials scratched into the arm.
He pulled out the next letter. It was dated eight months ago.
14 August 2024
Dear Kian,
You always teased me about the pistachio.
"Why do you keep ordering something you clearly hate?" you asked once, laughing with your whole face like you always did when you weren't thinking too hard.
I wanted to tell you the truth. That it wasn't about the flavor. It was about the way your eyes lit up when I acted ridiculous. About the way you'd steal a bite, make a face, and say, "You're actually broken, Em."
God, I miss being "Em."
I ordered pistachio because it meant hearing you laugh.
Because it made you look at me like I mattered.
Every time I licked that stupid green ice cream, I tasted the way you made me feel, seen, even if only for a second.
I wonder if you remember those afternoons.
I hope they weren't just mine.
Love,
Emilia
Kian's stomach twisted. He took one slow bite of the ice cream and immediately gagged. It was too sweet. Too bitter. Too… wrong.
A group of kids ran past, laughing. One of them wore a pink hoodie just like hers. For a second, the world tilted.
He stood up too fast.
The cone dropped to the pavement and splattered at his feet, a green smear on hot concrete.
As he walked home, he didn't speak. Didn't think.
But the letter echoed in his chest:
I wonder if you remember those afternoons.
I hope they weren't just mine.
They weren't.
He just didn't realize they mattered until now.