Greetings from Spain

Clara had never liked postcards. To her, they were lazy souvenirs—grabbed last minute in some airport shop, all gloss and no soul. So when the first one arrived, she nearly threw it away.

It showed the golden coast of Costa Brava, sunlight stretched across rocky shores. On the back, in careful, familiar handwriting, it said:

I saw the sea today and thought of you. – L.

No stamp. No return address. Just that.

She placed it on the counter and stared at it. Lucas. She hadn’t heard from him in five years—not since the night they stood dripping in a parking lot, neither of them brave enough to say what really mattered.

Two days later, another card came. This time from Granada.

The light on the Alhambra is like fire at dusk. You’d have loved it. – L.

No postmark. No signs of delivery. Someone had slipped it straight into her mail slot.

She walked the building, half hoping to catch him. But the old entry box didn’t even lock. Anyone could get in.

Clara, a history teacher, lived in facts. She believed in logic and timelines. Lucas never did. He was a photographer with no fixed address and a passport worn to soft edges. That had been their final fight—she needed roots, he needed wings.

And yet, the postcards kept arriving.

From Valencia:

This orange wine is a little bitter. So were we. But still, I drink it and smile. – L.

From Seville:

I learned to dance. Badly. You would’ve laughed. I miss your laugh. – L.

Each one carved at the wall she’d built. Not just for the words, but for the effort—he was walking across a country, thinking of her, after all this time. Was it love? Or just nostalgia?

Then came the card from Madrid.

I’ll be in Barcelona on the 14th. Café del Born, 5 p.m. If you want to yell at me—or see me—I’ll be there. – L.

No pressure. No promises.

Clara read it over and over, then pinned it to the fridge with a magnet. She didn’t sleep that night.

The train to Barcelona was late. She sat by the window, coat folded neatly on her lap, telling herself it was just for closure. Curiosity, nothing more.

But as she stepped into the winding streets of El Born, her heartbeat betrayed her. It was the same pulse she’d felt the first time he kissed her—in that tiny café in Lisbon. The same thrill when he showed up at her door at 2 a.m., fresh from Morocco, backpack slung over one shoulder.

He was already at the table.

Older, with a beard now. Same posture, same sketchbook.

When he looked up, they froze.

“Clara.”

“Lucas.”

She sat. The waiter came and went.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, tapping the edge of a postcard tucked in her pocket.

“I had time. And regrets.”

She hesitated. “You left. You didn’t fight.”

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

That stopped her.

“I thought you’d moved on. You always had plans—school, stability, a house. I was noise.”

“You were honest,” she said. “You just never asked if I could live with the noise.”

“I’m asking now.”

Silence.

“I kept the postcards,” she said.

He smiled. “I hoped you would.”

“You didn’t send them.”

“No. I delivered them myself. I wanted to be sure they reached you.”

Her heart turned. The man who once couldn’t stay still for a week had crossed a country just to leave her pieces of a trail.

“Why now?”

He didn’t look away. “Because I got tired of stories without endings. You were always my best chapter. I don’t want to leave that blank.”

She stared into her coffee, swirling it slowly.

“People don’t change overnight.”

“I haven’t,” he said. “But I know what I want. I want mornings with you. Not hostels and faces I won’t remember. I want home.”

She looked up.

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll leave. I’ll wish you well. And I’ll never show up again.”

It was the honesty that shook her—not desperation, just truth.

She breathed.

“Okay,” she said. “One dinner. No promises.”

“It’s a beginning,” he replied.

They stayed out until midnight, drifting through narrow alleys, laughing like they used to. They debated art. He took her photo in front of a graffiti wall and said, “Now I have proof you were real.”

The next morning, he made coffee in a rented flat that smelled like salt and old paperbacks. She noticed his camera bag by the window. His beat-up sneakers by the door.

“Are you staying long?” she asked.

He shrugged. “As long as you want me.”

She nodded. No vows. Just presence.

Two weeks later, she boarded the train home. He met her on the platform, pressed a folded note into her hand.

Not a postcard. Just a message.

Me. Ready, finally.

She opened it halfway down the tracks.

It was a plane ticket. Return trip. One month later. To Barcelona.

They didn’t rush. The differences remained—her need for plans, his for freedom. But he made space. Rented the same flat. Started learning the language. Taught photography once a week at a local school.

Clara sent postcards now. From her city to his. Just simple lines.

Saw a photo exhibit today. Yours would’ve been better.

Made that tortilla recipe. Burned it. You’d have laughed.

And one day:

Come home soon. I miss you.

And he did.