Weeks had passed since Rowan's departure, and the rhythm of Valenreach seemed both familiar and alien to Elara. The city moved on, as if indifferent to the absence that now shaped her days. The sea roared in the distance, relentless and constant, a reminder that the world did not pause for longing or unspoken words.
Elara tried to immerse herself in her routines—library work, lectures, walks through the winding streets—but the distance stretched the almosts between her and Rowan into something tangible, heavy, and at times almost unbearable. Letters arrived as expected, each one carefully composed, measured, and deliberate, yet the physical absence, the inability to see him, hear the nuances in his voice, or feel the faint brush of his presence, began to press on her.
It was on a Wednesday morning, with rain tapping against the window and the gray light of early winter filtering through, that the first tension crept into their correspondence. Elara had received a letter that morning, and as she unfolded it, she sensed a subtle change. Rowan's handwriting remained precise, but the words carried a faint distance, a hint of distraction that was almost imperceptible but unmistakable to her trained attention.
Elara, he had written,
The days grow longer than I anticipated. Work is relentless, and the cities I traverse feel unfamiliar, often inhospitable. I hope you are well, and that the quiet of your routines sustains you. I think of you, of course, but there are times when words feel insufficient to bridge the miles.
She read the lines twice, then set the letter down, her chest tightening. Words insufficient. Miles that could not be bridged. She knew the distance would strain them, but the subtle acknowledgment of frustration, of limitation, made her feel a pang of helplessness.
Determined not to let the thought fester, Elara poured herself into her day. At the library, she organized the stacks, cataloged the new arrivals, and immersed herself in research. Yet even among the familiar scent of old books and polished wood, she could not shake the thought of Rowan. His absence was a ghost that lingered in the corners, a constant reminder of the almosts suspended in the weeks since he left.
By afternoon, she was restless. She wrapped herself in her coat and walked along the sea wall, the mist curling around her, dampening the tips of her hair. The waves crashed against the rocks below, relentless and unfeeling, yet in some strange way, comforting in their consistency. She imagined him somewhere across the miles, standing on a different platform, staring at another gray sea, thinking of her as she thought of him.
Her hand itched to write, to send a letter, to bridge the unspoken tension with ink and paper. She found a quiet bench along the promenade and retrieved her notebook from her bag. The pages were blank, waiting, patient.
Rowan, she began, I feel the strain of distance more acutely than I expected. Your letters arrive, but they are careful, measured, and in them I sense something you are not saying. I do not know if it is fatigue, distraction, or some unseen boundary, but it unsettles me. I find myself measuring the almosts between us, counting them like fragile coins that I cannot spend.
She paused, staring at the waves as if the sea might offer guidance. The almosts had grown sharper in his absence, more insistent, almost unbearable. Yet she knew the act of writing, even these careful, cautious words, was a declaration of endurance, of continued connection.
The letter took hours to compose, each line weighed, each word measured. She wrote about her days, her walks, the library, the small occurrences that he would understand and recognize, because he always had. She wrote about the changes in the light, the way the sea seemed darker in the late afternoons, and the subtle melancholy that had settled in her thoughts since his departure.
When she finished, she sealed the envelope carefully, running her fingers over the edges as if to confirm its existence, its weight, its reality. Posting it felt like throwing a message in a bottle into a vast ocean, uncertain if it would reach the intended shore with the meaning intact.
That night, she lay awake in her apartment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the absence more acutely than ever. Every quiet corner of the city seemed infused with his memory. The chair where they had once talked at the library, the path along the sea wall where their steps had aligned, the windowsill where she had once placed a flower for him—all of it felt haunted by the almosts, by the weight of distance that neither letter nor memory could fully bridge.
The next day brought a reply, but it was shorter than usual, clipped, almost clinical in tone.
Elara, he had written,
I am well, though the days grow long and uncertain. My schedule allows little reflection, and I fear my letters may be less attentive than you deserve. Know that I think of you often, but circumstances prevent more than acknowledgment.
She read the words, her heart sinking slightly. The subtle shift, the hint of fatigue and distance, made the almosts ache in new ways. She folded the letter carefully, pressing it against her chest. Rowan was present, but the connection they had relied on was straining under the weight of reality.
In the quiet of her apartment, she wrestled with conflicting emotions: longing, worry, desire, and a sharp awareness of fragility. She realized that the almosts had become double-edged—they kept them tethered but also highlighted the impossibility of presence. She needed him, yet she knew the timing remained out of reach.
Over the following days, Elara sought small comforts. She wandered through the markets, inhaling the scent of fresh bread and spices, hoping the mundane rhythms of life might distract her from the ache of absence. She spent hours in the library, reorganizing shelves, discovering old manuscripts, and losing herself in the lives of people long gone. Yet even in these distractions, Rowan lingered in the periphery of her thoughts, the almosts sharpening with each imagined interaction.
Letters continued to arrive, each carefully composed, each carrying the subtle strain of his life apart from hers. Occasionally, they included small tokens: a pressed leaf, a sketch of a city street, a fragment of a poem he had read. These objects tethered him across distance, reminders that he was thinking of her, yet also reminders that physical presence was impossible.
One evening, Elara received a letter that carried both a confession and a challenge:
Elara,
I sense your longing, your patience, and the tension of distance. I wish I could say more, do more, but circumstances are not mine to bend. The almosts between us are sharper than ever, and I fear that the space may grow too wide if we do not endure carefully. Yet I cannot promise when the next meeting will be. Endurance is the only path I see for us now.
She read the letter repeatedly, tracing the words with trembling fingers. The almosts—the suspended moments, the unspoken gestures, the quiet acknowledgment of presence—had grown into a tension she could feel physically. She pressed the letter to her chest, feeling the weight of distance and longing in equal measure.
That night, she wrote again, deliberately:
Rowan,
Distance tests the almosts, makes them heavier, sharper, but it does not erase them. I endure because I must, because to let go would be to deny what we have shared. Know that your absence is felt in every corner of my day, yet I hold on, carefully, patiently, for the moment when timing allows us more than almosts.
As she folded the letter, she realized that endurance had become her companion. She understood that love could exist in restraint, that longing could be sustaining, and that the almosts, though painful, were proof of connection.
Days turned into weeks, the letters marking the rhythm of her life. She counted them, treasured them, and studied each word as if Rowan's attention had been poured into the paper itself. She learned patience, subtlety, and the quiet art of presence across distance.
Yet even as she endured, the ache persisted. Each letter was both balm and reminder, sustaining and sharpening the almosts. Elara understood now that the strain of distance was not a weakness—it was a test, a crucible through which their connection would be forged into something more enduring, more resilient.
The almosts were sharper than ever, but they were alive. And in their persistence, she found hope.
Elara pressed a hand to the pressed violet Rowan had sent, still kept in her notebook. It was fragile, delicate, yet it remained intact—a symbol of connection, endurance, and the possibility that the almosts would one day become everything.
And she knew, with quiet certainty, that she would endure. That she would wait. That she would write, think, and hope, because some things were worth the ache, worth the almosts, and worth the distance.