The days after Rowan's departure were heavier than Elara had anticipated. The streets of Valenreach, once comforting in their familiar angles and quiet rhythms, now felt hollow. Each corner, each cobblestone seemed to echo with the absence he had left behind. She walked to the library and back, took the same routes along the sea wall, yet the rhythm she had counted on felt fractured, as if the city itself were holding its breath.
Elara tried to occupy her mind with lectures, readings, and her own work, but the almosts—the things left unsaid, gestures never made, and touches barely brushed—pressed at her with a persistent insistence. Every time she reached for her notebook, she felt the tug of words she could not send, letters she could not write without feeling the raw vulnerability that had always made her hesitate.
On the second morning, she sat at her window, watching the gray sea undulate endlessly. The wind tugged at her hair, and the faint scent of salt and rain carried over the city rooftops. She imagined Rowan on a train, glancing out at the same water, thinking of her. The thought made her chest ache with an ache she could not define: was it longing? was it fear? Or was it the cruel weight of almosts stretched across distance?
Her first letter was hesitant. She wrote carefully, shaping each sentence, erasing and rewriting phrases that seemed too intimate, too fragile, or too revealing.
Rowan, she began, I hope this finds you well. The city is quieter without you. The library feels emptier, the streets less familiar. I find myself noticing the almosts you left behind, each one lingering, sharper for your absence…
She stopped, staring at the page. Even the act of writing made her pulse race. Every word felt like a choice, and every choice carried risk. She folded the paper carefully and placed it in an envelope, unsure if she would ever mail it. She felt, simultaneously, the temptation to reach across the miles and the terror of intrusion.
Days passed. The city continued its indifferent pace, the sea its constant roar, yet the letters multiplied—drafts and scraps, reflections of thoughts she could not yet say aloud. She wrote about her walks, the changing tides, the books she read, the quiet moments in the library where she had felt his absence most keenly. Every letter ended in the same unresolved tension, the almosts stretched thin across ink and paper.
Finally, a letter arrived. The envelope was unfamiliar, heavy, and his handwriting unmistakable—precise, deliberate, careful. Elara's hands shook slightly as she unfolded the paper.
Elara, it began, I hope you are well. The city feels strange without you, as if someone has left a subtle echo behind. I think of our walks, our talks, our almosts… and I realize that distance sharpens them, makes them undeniable. I cannot promise when I will return, only that I think of you every day, and I hope you do the same. Perhaps words are insufficient, but they are what I have.
She read the letter twice, feeling the pull of his presence in the careful phrasing, in the acknowledgment of the shared almosts. The weight of it pressed on her chest—not oppressive, but profound. Rowan was far away, yet the letter made him close again, tethering him to her thoughts in a way that made her ache.
In response, she wrote again, slower this time, letting the words emerge naturally:
Rowan,
Your letter reached me like the tide itself—inevitable, persistent, and impossible to ignore. I think of you, every day, as you asked. I think of the almosts we left unspoken, the silences we shared, and the presence that lingered even when you were gone. It is strange, the way distance can sharpen feeling rather than diminish it. I hope this finds you safe, and I hope, someday, timing will allow us more than almosts.
She sealed the letter, lingering with her thumb against the envelope. Sending it felt like stepping off a cliff with only faith to guide her. And yet, as she walked to the post box, the act felt vital—a small assertion that she could not live suspended forever between almosts and unspoken words.
The days bled into weeks. Letters became their ritual, delicate threads binding them across the miles. She received one every few days, sometimes handwritten, sometimes typed, always precise, always carrying his quiet observation of the world.
One letter arrived with a small pressed flower tucked inside: a pale violet, its edges frayed but intact. For you, he had written simply, a piece of Valenreach to keep until I return.
Elara held the flower against her chest, feeling the weight of care, of attention, of presence in the absence of the man she longed for. She placed it in her notebook, pressing it gently between pages she had already written on. It became her talisman, a reminder that he existed somewhere, thinking of her, tethering himself to the almosts they had shared.
In her solitude, she began noticing small things: the way light fell through her window in the late afternoon, the faint scent of rain on the stone streets, the way her favorite chair in the library carried his absence. Each detail, mundane and ordinary, became charged with memory and longing. She cataloged them all in her letters, carefully choosing which to share and which to keep private, a map of her heart laid across paper.
And then came the first worry. Rowan's letters, though consistent, carried hints of fatigue and distraction—small mentions of work, new responsibilities, travels to unfamiliar cities. Each word made her stomach tighten. Was he growing distant? Was the almosts-space between them stretching too thin to survive?
She refused to dwell on it too long. Instead, she wrote:
I hope the days are not too demanding. I hope the cities you walk are kind to you. I hope you remember that here, someone waits, noticing every almost, every pause, every quiet presence you leave behind.
One evening, she sat by the window with a fresh letter in her hands, watching the lights of the city reflect on the dark waves of the sea. A sense of futility pressed at her. She could write endlessly, and yet the distance remained, and the almosts persisted, delicate, teasing, unresolved. She understood for the first time that longing could be both sustaining and agonizing.
She imagined Rowan in some distant city, reading her letters with careful attention, feeling the pull of her presence across miles. The thought made her chest ache in a way that was almost painful but also profoundly alive.
Elara realized she had begun counting the days between letters, marking them carefully in her notebook. She began to plan small details of her life around the arrival of his words—the moments she would read them, the way she would savor them. Letters became more than communication; they were proof of existence, reminders that almosts were not the same as absence.
In the quiet of her apartment, she finally admitted to herself what she had always suspected: the almosts between them had grown larger, sharper, more insistent. The restraint that had defined her, the careful attention she had always paid to timing, now felt insufficient. She wanted to act, to reach across the miles in some tangible way, yet she knew the moment was not hers to seize.
And yet, in the very act of writing, of thinking, of remembering, she felt a strange solace. Rowan was gone, but he was present. Distance could not erase the almosts; it could only make them more acute, more vital, more impossible to ignore.
That night, she closed her notebook and placed the pressed violet on the bedside table. She lay awake, listening to the distant waves, thinking of letters yet to write, words yet to say, and moments that would arrive only in the fullness of time.
Somehow, she knew that this ritual—letters, longing, and almosts—would define the weeks to come. They would teach her patience, endurance, and the subtle art of presence in absence. They would remind her that love, even in restraint, had weight, and that almosts were sometimes the only bridge between hearts.
She drifted to sleep thinking of him, imagining his careful attention, his quiet observation, and the unmistakable pull of connection that distance could never sever.
And in her dreams, the almosts became something more—something palpable, almost actionable, waiting only for timing to align with courage.