The letter arrived on a Tuesday, tucked between bills and the weekly town newsletter. Elena almost missed it, her hands full with groceries, her mind still on the last painting she'd left unfinished.
It was the stamped crest on the envelope that stopped her heart: The School of Fine Arts in San Miguel.
She stared at it, her groceries forgotten on the counter. Her hands trembled as she slid her finger under the seal. The paper crackled like a drumbeat against her chest.
Dear Miss Ramirez...
Her eyes flew across the lines, the words burning themselves into memory. We are pleased to inform you... scholarship consideration... portfolio review... final interview scheduled...
She let out a shaky laugh that was half-sob. This was it. The door she had dreamed of knocking on her whole life had finally opened.
"Elena?" Adrian's voice carried from the living room. He was stretched across the couch, still in his running clothes, his sweat sparkling across his temples. He sat up when he saw her expression. "What is it? Bad news?"
Wordlessly, she held out the letter.
He took it, scanning quickly. When his eyes lifted to hers, they were wide, startled, and then slowly filled with pride. "Elena... This is incredible."
She laughed again, pressing her hands to her mouth. "I didn't think they'd even look at my work."
"Of course they did," he said fiercely. "Anyone who's seen your art knows you belong there. They'd be fools not to."
Her heart swelled at his words. Yet beneath the joy was a ripple of something else. Fear, because San Miguel wasn't here. It was hours away.
And Adrian's leave wasn't forever.
That night, the letter sat between them on the coffee table, as real and heavy as any unspoken thought.
Adrian traced the edge of the envelope with his thumb. "So... when would you have to go?"
"In three months," she said quietly. "If I pass the interview, classes start in the fall."
He nodded, his face unreadable.
"You think I should do it, don't you?" she asked.
"I think you'd regret it for the rest of your life if you didn't," he replied. His voice was steady, but there was something behind his eyes, a shadow.
She leaned closer. "Adrian..."
But he shook his head, "Don't hold back for me, Elena. Don't even think about it. You've already spent years waiting for money, for timing, for this opportunity, for... me. You deserve this."
She wanted to argue, to tell him that her dream meant nothing without him in it. But she knew him too well. Duty was written into his bones. He'd never let her sacrifice her future for him, just as he would never walk away from the call that might come any day.
Instead, she reached for his hand. "It feels like the universe is trying to pull us apart again."
His grip tightened. "Then we'll hold on harder."
The days that followed were caught between light and shadow. In the mornings, Adrian ran drills on the beach, his body firm with discipline, his gaze distant as though watching ghosts on the horizon. Elena watched from her balcony sometimes, sketching his silhouette against the dawn.
In the afternoon, she worked at the cafe, her apron dusted with flour, the scholarship letter tucked safely in her sketchbook like a talisman. Customers congratulated her, word traveled fast in their small town, but every cheer made the knot in her chest grow tighter.
At night, they sat together in her apartment. Sometimes they laughed, cooking dinner side by side. Other times, silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of things neither wanted to say.
One evening, Adrian broke the silence. "When you picture San Miguel, what do you see?"
She hesitated. "Tall windows. Big canvases. Students who paint all night and fall asleep in the studio. Professors who push me harder than I think I can go." She smiled faintly. "I see myself becoming who I always dreamed of being."
"And me?" His voice was so low she almost didn't hear it.
Her pencil stopped over her sketchbook. "You're there. In every version."
He leaned back, his expression unreadable. "I don't want to be the reason you look back and wonder what you missed."
"You won't be," she said firmly. "But..." Her throat tightened. "What if you get deployed again? What if... we can't survive the distance this time?"
His jaw clenched. "We've survived it before. We could still do it this time."
"Barely," she whispered.
The word cut deeper than she meant. Adrian's shoulders stiffened, and for a moment she saw it, the soldier's mask sliding into place, the walls he built when fear grew too close.
"Elena," he said quietly, "my life is full of tomorrows I can't control. Yours doesn't have to be. Don't chain yourself to my uncertainty. Promise me that."
Her eyes burned, and tears started to fill her eyes. "And what about us? Are we just... temporary?"
His gaze snapped to hers, fierce. "No. Never. You're the only permanent thing in my life." He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching hers. "But I can't stand the thought of you killing your light because of me."
Her tears finally slipped free. She wanted to argue, to tell him that she would follow him anywhere, that she didn't care about galleries or scholarships if it meant losing him. But deep down, she knew he was right. She had fought too hard for her dreams to abandon them now.
And he had fought too hard to protect the world, even at the cost of himself.
Later that night, as Adrian slept beside her, Elena lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The sound of his breathing was steady, but even in sleep, his brow was furrowed, his hand twitching against hers as though reaching for something just out of reach.
She turned onto her side, studying the features of his face in the moonlight. The scars, the shadows, the boy, and the soldier all in one.
She thought of her future: bright studios, canvases filled with color. She thought of his: unknown deployments, a life lived half in silence, half in shadows.
Between her dreams and his duty, there was only one thing common they have: love for each other.
But would love be enough?
She sat down carefully not to wake him up. His hand now rested on her lap. She reached for her sketchbook and began to draw, her hand moving almost of its own accord. By the time dawn arrive and the sunlight peek through the curtains, she had filled the page: two figures standing on opposite cliffs, a vast sea between them. Above, the stars stretched wide, glowing, a bridge of light connecting the two.
Her tears stained the paper, but she didn't stop.
Because this was their truth: they might never walk the same path, but the stars would always guide them back to each other.