The first letter came two weeks after Adrian left.
Elena nearly missed it, tucked between bills and advertisements in her mailbox. The envelope was crumpled, the handwriting hurried but unmistakable. Her fingers trembled as she tore it open right there on the doorstep, her heart racing at the sight of his words.
Elena,
The days here are long, but it's you I think of when I look at the sky. I can't say where I am, but I can say that the nights are loud and yet somehow lonely. Your face is the peace I hold onto. Don't lose that spark, okay? Keep painting. Keep laughing. Keep being the person who makes me believe there's something worth coming back to.
-A
She pressed the letter to her chest, breath shaking with relief. He was alive. He was thinking of her.
That night, she pulled out her sketchbook, drawing the stars as she imagined them from wherever he was. And for the first time since he left, she fell asleep with a smile, the letter tucked under her pillow.
But weeks became months. Letters didn't always come.
Sometimes they arrived in a steady flow, once every other week. Sometimes shorter, sometimes longer. She cherished each one, her eyes drinking in the hurried lines, the smudges where ink had blurred. Other times, there was silence. Days stretched into weeks, her mailbox empty, her chest aching with questions she couldn't voice.
She wrote back every time, pouring her heart onto the page with small sheets of paper where she had drawn anything that reminded her of him. But the ocean and the war were greedy. Some of her letters never reached him. Some of them never reached her. Their love existed in fragments of paper, carried by distance and fate.
And then there were the phone calls.
The first came at midnight. Elena had been dozing on the couch, her sketchbook open on her lap, when the phone buzzed against the silence of her apartment. She scrambled to answer, her breath catching at the sound of his voice.
"Elena?"
Her eyes filled instantly. "Adrian. Oh God. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he said quickly. "I just... I had a few minutes. I wanted to hear your voice."
She laughed through her tears, pressing the phone to her as if it could close the miles. "I miss you."
"I miss you too. More than I should admit."
They talked until the line cut off, abrupt and cruel, leaving her holding the silent phone to her cheeks. Still, she clung to the warmth of his words, replaying them in her mind until dawn.
But love, stretched thin across miles, wears out easily.
One evening, after another long silence with no letter, no calls, Elena sat in the cafe after her shift, staring at the empty pier through the window. Her best friend, Amira, slid into the seat across from her.
"You're going to make yourself sick, Ele," Amira said, her eyes soft but firm.
Elena didn't look away from the window. "What if something happened to him? What if-"
"You can't live on what ifs."
Her throat tightened. "But what if he never comes back?"
Amira reached out across the table, squeezing her hand. "Then you'll survive. Because you're stronger than you think. But right now, he's out there surviving too, and you have to believe that."
Elena nodded, though belief was harder than it sounded.
The months blurred. She painted more than ever, filling canvas after canvas with skies, waves, shadows, and starlight. Some days, the work felt like therapy. Other days, it felt like screaming into silence.
Then came the letter that nearly broke her. It was shorter than the rest, the handwriting shakier.
Elena,
I don't know how to explain what it feels like here. Some days, I felt like a ghost walking among men. Some days, I wonder if I'll make it back at all. But I promise you this: If I don't, know that you're the last good thing I carried with me. Always, A
Her tears fell so hard she smudged the ink. For the first time, she almost gave up. She kneels on the floor as she hugs the letter as if it's her lifeline.
She screamed with all her might as if it would bring him back to her. For hours, she cried before she decided to tuck the letter into the bottom drawer of her desk, unable to look at it again without breaking.
But just as despair threatened to settle in, the phone rang again.
"Elena." His voice was hoarse, tired, but alive.
She choked on relief. "Adrian. I thought-"
"I know,"he said softly. "I'm sorry. It's been rough, but I'm still here."
"Don't you dare write to me like you're already gone," she snapped through her tears. "Don't.you.dare."
There was silence, then a faint sound of his laugh, tired but real. "I needed that."
They talked until the line cut again.
And when Elena hung up, she went to her desk, pulled out the drawer, and placed that letter back with the others. Because even if love hurts, even if it broke her, she wasn't ready to let go.
One night, standing next to her window, she whispered to the stars and beg again, her breath fogging in the cold air.
"Please... Bring him back to me."
The sea didn't answer. The stars didn't fall. But she felt, somewhere deep inside, that he had whispered the same words beneath the same sky, thousands of miles away.