The Letters Between Us

I found the first letter in the mailbox on a Tuesday, though it had clearly been written months before.

It was in his handwriting — small, careful, and deliberate — the way it always had been when he was trying not to spill too much of himself at once. I didn’t recognize the postmark; he had moved to another city a year ago.

I hope this finds you well, it began. I think about you sometimes, even when I shouldn’t.

We had met in college — two awkward, hopeful souls who stumbled into each other’s lives like chapters colliding. Our friendship had grown quietly, easily, into something neither of us could fully name.

But life had other plans. He graduated early, took a job across the country, and we parted with promises that felt too heavy for our age.

Then the letters began.

At first, just one. Then another every few months, each arriving without warning. Some were long, filled with his observations about the city, the people he met, and the sunsets he chased. Others were short, almost cryptic:

I saw a bookstore today and thought of you.

I tried a pastry you would’ve hated. I smiled anyway.

I wrote back sometimes, and sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I tore the letters open immediately; sometimes I left them on my desk for days, afraid that if I read them too closely, I might feel too much.

Over the years, these letters became our lifeline.

Even though we were separated by hundreds of miles, I felt him beside me in the little things — in the sound of rain against the window, in a song that reminded me of a cold winter morning, in the way my coffee tasted a little better because I imagined he was somewhere else drinking the same thing.

We never planned to meet again. Not really. There was always an unspoken understanding that some connections are not meant to last in the physical world, that they are sacred precisely because of distance and restraint.

One spring afternoon, I found an envelope that wasn’t addressed to me. Inside, folded neatly, was a note I had written him years ago.

I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re still chasing sunsets. I hope I see you again someday.

I realized then that our love existed between letters, in the spaces where we couldn’t touch, in the silences we respected. It was fragile and impossible, yet somehow, it endured.

Years passed.

I moved cities, got jobs, fell in and out of love, yet the letters continued to arrive. Each one was a reminder that love does not always have to be tangible to be real. Sometimes it thrives in memory, in imagination, in the quiet knowing that someone else is carrying you in their heart.

The final letter came on a rainy December evening.

I think this is my last. I’ll always remember us, in the corners of the world, in sunlight and shadows. Thank you for being my home in the pages of my life.

I held it for hours, the rain streaking the window like tears I hadn’t allowed myself to cry. I didn’t feel sadness, exactly. I felt gratitude. For the letters. For the love. For the way someone could shape your world without ever being physically present.

I kept every letter. I pinned them to the corkboard above my desk, their edges yellowed, ink fading slightly. Every so often, I run my fingers over the paper and smile.

Some love never asks to be held.

Some love waits in letters, in memories, in the quiet corners of the heart.

And sometimes, that’s enough to last a lifetime.