The Last Letter

The rain had been falling for hours, soft and persistent, like the world itself was mourning something unseen. Mira stood beneath the old willow tree, her coat soaked and her fingers trembling around the edges of a yellowed letter. This tree had once been their place—hers and Arman’s. Now, it stood like a silent witness to a love that had come and gone, echoing only in memories and regrets.

It had been two years since Arman left. Not in anger, not with resentment—but with dreams. He had always wanted to study music in Vienna. Mira remembered how his eyes would light up whenever he spoke of grand concert halls and the echo of violins that seemed to sing through ancient cities. She had encouraged him. How could she not? Love, she believed, was not about holding someone back.

They had made promises under that very tree. Promises of letters, calls, and visits. Promises that the distance wouldn't change them. And for a while, it didn’t. The first few months were a whirlwind of emails, video calls, and songs he wrote just for her. She would listen to them late at night, her head on her pillow, eyes closed, imagining his fingers moving gently over piano keys somewhere far away.

But slowly, the silence began.

First, the calls came less often. Then the letters stopped. One unread message turned into ten. And eventually, Mira stopped writing, too—not out of anger, but exhaustion. It was as if she had been holding a conversation with a ghost.

No goodbye had ever come. No explanation. Just absence.

Mira never told anyone how it haunted her. How she woke up some nights and reached for a phone that never rang. How she still walked past the coffee shop where they had their first date, hoping—absurdly—that he might appear again, like a dream forgotten and remembered all at once.

Today was supposed to be her wedding day.

Not to Arman. To someone else. A good man. Kind. Patient. Understanding. But not Arman.

She had canceled everything a week ago. No one understood. They called her ungrateful, foolish even. But how could she marry someone else when echoes of another still lived in her chest?

So instead of a gown, she wore black. Instead of walking down the aisle, she walked back to the willow, clutching the letter she had never sent. The one she had written a year ago, when she had finally found the strength to say goodbye—to a ghost who would never answer.

Her fingers moved as if by instinct, and she unfolded the damp paper. The ink was blurred now, but she remembered every word.

“Dear Arman,

I hope Vienna is everything you dreamed. I hope the music lifts your spirit the way it once lifted mine when you played for me.

But I can’t wait forever for echoes. I loved you, and maybe I always will. But love, when unanswered, turns into longing. And longing, unattended, becomes pain.

I’m letting go—not because I stopped loving you, but because I need to love myself again.

Mira.”

She closed her eyes, pressing the letter against her chest.

A breeze rustled the leaves, and for a moment, she swore she could hear it—his voice, faint and fading—carried by the wind. It said her name like a memory, soft and broken: "Mira..."

She turned around quickly, startled.

And there he stood.

Soaked from the rain, a duffel bag at his feet, and eyes filled with the kind of sadness that could drown an ocean.

“Arman?” Her voice cracked.

“I—I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, voice trembling. “I came home last week. I went to your house, but they said you were getting married today. I didn’t know if I was too late.”

“You are,” she whispered, unsure if it was the truth or something she needed to believe.

“I messed up, Mira,” he said. “Vienna wasn’t what I thought. The music was there, yes. But not the music we made. I was scared. I thought I had to choose between dreams and love, and I chose wrong. Every note I played sounded empty without you.”

Her heart pounded. She wanted to scream, to cry, to run, or to hold him so tightly the years might vanish. But she stood still.

“You left without a word,” she said quietly. “Do you know what that did to me?”

“I know now,” he said, voice shaking. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just needed you to know... I never stopped loving you.”

Silence fell again, the kind only heartbreak can command.

Finally, she looked down at the letter in her hands, then back at him. Her eyes were tired, but they held something else—something softer.

“I wrote you this,” she said, holding the letter out to him. “But I never sent it.”

He took it, eyes scanning the blurred ink. When he looked back up, he was crying.

“I’ll go,” he said. “If that’s what you want. I just... I needed to hear your voice one more time.”

Mira looked at him. The boy she had once loved, now a man shaped by absence and regret. Maybe love wasn’t about always staying. Maybe it was about returning—and being brave enough to face what was left behind.

“I don’t know what I want,” she said honestly. “But I’m glad you came.”