LETTER'S THAT LED ME BACK TO YOU
The rain had just stopped when Elara Hayes found herself alone in the university library, surrounded by silence and the faint scent of old paper. Outside, twilight dripped across the windows like watercolors, blurring the world beyond. She liked this hour—the stillness, the peace, the way the world seemed to exhale after a long day. She was hunched over her desk, sketching out the outline for her final project—an analysis of fractured narratives in modern poetry.
But peace never lasted long around memories.
Her eyes fell on the old notebook tucked beneath her stack of textbooks. Its once-blue cover had faded to a tired gray, edges curled from years of secrets and rough handling. Inside were the letters she wrote to someone who would never read them.
Dear Adrian,
Today I passed the courtyard where we used to sit. The air was crisp, just like that first time. Remember that? I had spilled coffee all over my notes, and you just laughed, pulling a crumpled napkin from your pocket and offering to buy me a new one. That was the day I realized I was done being alone. The sun was so bright it turned your dark hair to polished mahogany. If I close my eyes, I can still see it.
She closed the notebook quickly, pressing her hand against the cover like she could stop the ache that rose with every word. It had been two years since he left—no message, no goodbye, no warning. Just gone. The world kept moving, securing scholarships and deadlines, but something inside her never did. It was suspended in the moment he vanished.
"Elara?"
The soft voice startled her. Mia, her roommate and lifeline, leaned on the doorframe, smiling gently but with concern shadowing her eyes. "You're still here? The library's closing soon. Professor Dawes will lock you in with the Renaissance texts."
"Yeah," Elara murmured, slipping the notebook deep into her worn canvas bag. "I just lost track of time arguing with Virginia Woolf."
Mia didn't buy it. She tilted her head, her gaze resting on the bulge in the bag where the notebook lay. "You mean you were writing to him again."
Elara didn't answer. She didn't have to. The truth hung between them, heavy and familiar.
Mia sighed, a sound of weary acceptance, but smiled anyway. "You know, they say writing helps heal. But sometimes, especially with those letters, it just keeps the wound meticulously clean, but wide open."
"I know," Elara whispered, hoisting the bag onto her shoulder. "But it's the only way I can still talk to him without hearing silence in return."
They walked together through the dim hallways of Arven University, the low, comforting hum of the building punctuated by faint laughter echoing from students outside. Elara had learned to smile again, to study, to excel. She had built a sturdy, practical life in Adrian's absence, a life where emotion was categorized and filed away. But every time she saw a dark-haired boy with a camera slung over his shoulder, or heard the sound of acoustic guitar strings drifting from an open dorm window—her heart stumbled, threatening to undo her carefully constructed composure.
The next morning, sunlight poured through the windows of her required Advanced Literature class. Elara slid into her usual seat at the back, notebook in hand, enjoying the anonymity. Professor Dawes, a cheerful man known for his dramatic flair, entered with a theatrical grin and said, "Class, before we begin discussing the tragic heroism of Hamlet, I'd like to introduce your new teaching assistant. He just returned to Arven after completing a prestigious music fellowship overseas. He'll be helping with the semester projects and grading your papers."
The door opened behind the podium.
And the air left Elara's lungs, taking all logical thought with it.
He walked in, taller, a little broader across the shoulders, and much sharper around the edges—a man refined by distance and success. But the familiar intensity of his dark eyes, the slight curve of his smile, and the way he carried himself were unmistakable. It was Adrian Cole.
Her Adrian.
Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the professor. Adrian moved with the easy confidence of someone who had faced down ghosts and won, until he stood beside the professor. His eyes swept the room, taking a measured inventory of every face—and stopped abruptly when they met hers in the back corner.
For a second that stretched into an eternity, everything froze. The chatter of the class, the movement of the sunlight, the history between them—two years of silence collapsed into that single, shared gaze. Recognition, shock, and a flash of agonizing remorse crossed his face.
"Elara," he breathed under his breath, lips barely moving, a name that felt more like a prayer than a greeting. But she saw it.
Professor Dawes continued speaking, mentioning office hours and deadlines, but Elara didn't hear a word. All she felt was the crushing weight of a thousand letters she never sent—and the boy she had written every one of them to, standing a few feet away, holding a red grading pen like a weapon.
That night, sleep was a battlefield she wasn't prepared to fight. Every heartbeat whispered his name, interspersed with the bitter question: Why now?
When she finally gathered the courage to go back to the library—the safe place, the place of their accidental meeting—she found him there. He was alone, sitting by the window in the History section, a familiar, worn guitar case on his lap.
He looked up when she entered. His exhaustion was visible now, settling deep beneath his eyes. "I was hoping you'd come. I've been waiting."
Her voice was raw, trembling despite her best efforts to lock it down. "Why are you here, Adrian? Why Arven?"
He smiled faintly, tiredly. "I took the TA position because I needed a reason to be back here. Maybe because I never really left you."
She laughed, a short, brittle sound of pure pain. "You did. You left me with nothing but letters I wrote to your memory, and two years of devastating silence."
Adrian set the guitar case aside and stood. The movement was slow, deliberate, respecting the fragile space between them. "I wanted to come back sooner, Elara. Believe me, I was a mess. But I couldn't. I had commitments, contracts I couldn't break."
"Couldn't, or wouldn't break?"
His jaw tightened, the mask of calm slipping. "You don't understand the complexity of the fellowship. It demanded everything."
"Then make me understand," she said softly, but with steel. "Because I deserve to. I deserved that explanation two years ago."
He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking until she could smell the clean, woody scent of his jacket and the lingering, familiar smell of rain. His voice was low, rough with regret, forcing her to look up at him.
"I left because I thought it was the right thing for you," he confessed. "I got the scholarship overseas, and I convinced myself that my dream would hold you back from chasing your own. I thought you'd chase your dreams if I wasn't holding you back, Elara. But I was wrong. I thought leaving would save us from a future of regret. It only broke us."
Her eyes stung, but she refused to let the tears fall. "You should've trusted me enough to choose for myself, Adrian. You didn't give me a choice. You took it."
"I know," he said, his own voice cracking. "And I'll spend every day trying to earn that trust back—if you'll let me. I'm not asking for forgiveness, I'm asking for time."
For a long moment, silence hung between them, heavier than any conversation, thick with everything unsaid, everything written.
Finally, she whispered, "You don't get to walk back into my life and fix everything in one night with an apology."
"I know," he said again, his voice softer now, accepting her terms. "Then let me start with this."
He handed her a folded piece of paper. She recognized the handwriting instantly—his strong, elegant script.
It was a l now.