The town was quieter than I remembered.The mornings began with the sound of soft wind brushing through the trees and ended with the lonely echo of footsteps fading down the cobblestone road. It was peaceful — too peaceful. The kind of quiet that makes your heart ache if you stay too long.
That's when I knew it was time to go back.
I folded my clothes neatly, slipping them into the old brown suitcase my mother gave me years ago. My hands trembled as I touched the last thing I packed — a photograph. Me and Aiden, under the oak tree, our smiles wide and real.
I tried not to look at it too long. The air in my small room already felt heavy with memories that wouldn't stop whispering his name.
The train ride to the city was slow and silver, stretching across hours and heartbeats. Outside the window, everything blurred — trees, towns, rivers — like the world was rushing past while I stayed the same.
When I finally stepped off the train, the city lights greeted me. Familiar streets, old laughter, the scent of home in the air. My heart leapt when I saw them — my family waiting by the station gates.
"Elara!" My mother's voice cracked with happiness. My father smiled, pulling me into a hug so warm I thought I'd melt right there. For a moment, I was just home.
But then I saw him.
Aiden.
He stood a few steps away — hands in his pockets, watching quietly. His family was there too, smiling at me like nothing had changed. Mrs. Gray hugged me, Mr. Gray patted my shoulder. But Aiden… he didn't move. He didn't even blink.
"Hi," I said softly.
He just nodded. A small, almost invisible movement. His eyes were distant — not cruel, not kind — just empty.
I told myself maybe it was the city air, maybe he was tired, maybe tomorrow he'd talk. But deep inside, something felt off — like I was standing in a dream that wasn't mine.
The laughter around me echoed too perfectly, the lights shimmered too bright, and Aiden's silence cut through everything like a crack in the glass.
Was this real… or was I imagining the version of him I missed?
That night, as the city slept, I sat by my window with my old diary open on my lap. The pages smelled faintly of ink and rain — like memories that refused to fade.
And without thinking, I wrote the only truth my heart could still speak.
"I stopped sending you letters when you smiled for someone else".
The pen slipped slightly at the end, as if my hand didn't want to finish the sentence. I closed the diary and pressed it to my chest. The city outside shimmered with light, but in my heart, everything had gone quiet again.