The sound of the post coming in through the letterbox barely registered in my mind. I was hoping for a letter, but the moment it landed in my hands, my pulse hit a new pitch. The envelope was familiar — her handwriting, delicate and precise, the edges slightly worn from how many times she must have held it before sending it. I ran to my room to read it immediately. My chest tightened as I tore it open, as though it contained Emma herself; the paper rustling beneath my fingers like it was alive, trembling with the weight of what it held.
I barely let myself breathe as I read her first words. Apologies. Explanations. Carefully measured sentences that already made my heart ache. She was letting me in, finally, across the miles. I could feel the trembling of her hands in every curve of her letters.
And then the story unfolded. My stomach dropped as I read her account of what had happened, the attack, the fear, the moments she had faced alone. I could feel my hands clench the paper until it crinkled, my knuckles white. My anger surged — hot, sharp, almost blinding. The world felt suddenly wrong. Why had she been left alone to face that? How had I not been there? My chest throbbed with helplessness, frustration, and guilt all at once.
The words kept coming — the careful recounting of every tear, every sleepless night, every ounce of fear she had tried to hide. My own heart ached with every word. I wanted to be next to her, to take it all away, to erase every second she had suffered. But all I could do was sit, helpless, with just her words in my hands.
Tears blurred my vision, but I read on. My body shook with the weight of her honesty and her courage. She had survived. She had endured. She had entrusted me with her pain. And in that trust, I found a new resolve, one that made my heart pound so fiercely it felt like it might break through my ribs. I would never let her face anything alone again. I would be her shield, her anchor, her home.
Anger burned hot in me — at him, at the world, at myself for not being there. I could feel it like fire coursing through my veins. My fists clenched, my jaw ached from holding back words I wanted to scream to the whole world: "I am here now. I will not let anyone hurt you again."
And then came her final words. The visit she had been saving for, the one she had planned so carefully, was impossible. She wouldn't have enough money. My stomach sank, but the despair was brief, replaced immediately by determination. Money would not keep us apart. Distance would not keep us apart. I would find a way to be with her, no matter what it took.
I pressed the letter to my chest, feeling her trembling hands on the page through the paper itself. Every word carried her fear, her grief, her longing, and her trust. My entire being ached with the knowledge that she had suffered while I had been absent, but beneath it all was a fire, an unshakable certainty: I would never leave her again.
I could see her clearly in my mind: curled up in her room, reading my letters over and over. I imagined her lifting her head when she heard the door open, hopeful for a familiar presence, expecting no one, being met by the quiet of her family. And I hated that I hadn't been there for those moments, hated the weeks of silence that had stretched between us. But I would be there now. Every heartbeat of mine would be for her. Every second of my life would belong to her.
I folded the letter carefully, set it down, and tried to steady myself. The ache in my chest was still there, raw and throbbing, but it was no longer helpless. It was purposeful. Every plan, every thought, every breath I took from this moment onward would be for her. I would find a way to surprise her, to be there for her, to restore the safety she deserved. Nothing — no money, no distance, no fear — would stop me.
I thought of the days we had spent together under the trees, of the warmth of her head against my chest, of her fingers tangling in my hair. Each memory was a spark, igniting a fire that would carry me to her. I would cross any distance, climb any obstacle, endure any delay to reach her. She had given me her trust again, and I would honour it with everything I had.
Anger and heartbreak melted into something steadier, a quiet, fierce determination. I would be her safe place. I would be her anchor. I would make her feel, every day, that she was not alone, that she was cherished, that she was loved beyond measure. That one word — love — might not be enough to hold everything. From now on I would live every moment for her. And I would show her in every way I could that it was more than enough to keep us together.
I imagined holding her in my arms, whispering softly into her ear that she was safe, that I would always be there. The months of letters, of separation, of waiting, would not be in vain. Every moment apart had only strengthened this certainty: I could not, would not, ever let her face the world alone.
I leaned back, letting the letter rest against my chest again, feeling her presence in my mind as if she were there, breathing in the same room, trembling slightly, her eyes glimmering with both vulnerability and trust. That alone was enough to ignite a fire in me. I would move heaven and earth to be with her. I would take care of her, protect her, and remind her every day that I was hers and I would do anything for her.
The hours stretched before me, but I felt ready. Every second I had waited for this letter, every lonely night, every pang of distance, had led to this moment. And now, I would act. I would find a way to be with her, to erase the fear that had shadowed her, to show her that nothing — not even the cruelest moments of life — could diminish what we had.
I set the letter down one last time and whispered into the quiet room, "I'm coming, Emma. I'll be there. Every moment you need me, I'll find a way to be there."
And for the first time in weeks, I felt like I had a purpose as sharp and certain as my love for her — a love that would not falter, a love that would carry us across the distance, no matter how long it took.