The rain had been falling since morning, soft and steady against the glass window of Elara's small apartment. She sat by the desk, a half-empty mug of coffee growing cold beside her. In front of her lay a stack of old envelopes—yellowed, some smudged with ink, all sealed but never sent.
They were addressed to one person.
Adrian.
His name alone still made her heart tighten, as if no time had passed since the day he left. Three years, and yet the memories were as sharp as the scent of rain on the pavement—fresh, painful, impossible to ignore.
She picked up the first letter. The date on the corner read June 10, 2022—the day after his flight.
> Dear Adrian,
I watched your plane disappear into the clouds, and I wondered if you looked back, even for a second. You said we'd see each other again "soon," but soon feels like a word that breaks the longer it waits.
I wanted to tell you everything I couldn't say at the airport, but maybe words were never enough. Maybe I just needed one more moment—to hold your hand, to ask you to stay.
Elara stopped reading. Her handwriting trembled slightly, even now. She remembered that day vividly—his suitcase by the door, his smile trying to hide the heaviness in his eyes. He had dreams to chase abroad, and she had promised not to hold him back.
But promises were easier to give than to keep.
Every month since he left, she had written a letter—some long, some short, some filled with hope, others with anger or regret. Yet not once did she send them. She kept them hidden in a wooden box under her bed, as if they were secrets too fragile for the world to see.
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance. She traced his name with her fingertips.
"Maybe it's time," she whispered to herself.
Time to stop writing.
Or time to finally send them.
Her phone buzzed, startling her. A message appeared on the screen.
> Unknown Number: Hi, is this Elara? It's been a while... I'm back.
Her breath caught. Her heart began to race.
The letters—every one she never sent—suddenly mattered again.