She Waited a Lifetime—Only to Find He Had Moved On

April 3, 1939

My Dearest Mei Juan,

As I sit beneath the lantern’s dim glow, the ink bleeds onto the paper as heavily as my heart aches. By the time you read this, I will already be on the train, heading toward the frontlines. They tell us the war will be brief, that I will return before the autumn leaves fall, but I do not trust their certainty. War is not measured in seasons, but in the moments it steals, the hearts it breaks.

I promise you, Mei, I will come back. No force in this world, not even war, could sever the love I carry for you. When this is over, we will build the home we always dreamed of—where jasmine climbs the window, and the echoes of our laughter fill the halls. Until then, keep me in your prayers, as I keep you in my soul.

I love you. I will always love you.

Yours forever,

Wei Guo

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August 20, 1939

To My Dearest Wei Guo,

I have read your letter so many times the paper is wearing thin. I trace the ink with my fingers, as if touching your hand through the distance. Each evening, I sit by the door, watching the road, waiting—hoping—to see your familiar figure coming home to me. But the days stretch long, and my heart tightens with longing.

I do not need riches, nor a grand house filled with luxury—I need only you. No matter how many seasons pass, I will wait for you, Wei Guo. Even if the world moves forward without us, my heart remains where you left it.

Please, come home.

Yours, always and forever,

Mei Juan

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October 10, 1945

To My Beloved Mei Juan,

It has been six years since I last wrote to you. Six years since I last saw your face, traced the lines of your smile, or held your hand in mine. I have wanted to write you every day, but war does not allow such luxuries. The war has ended now, but I am not the man you once knew.

I was captured, Mei Juan. Taken as a prisoner. For years, I saw only darkness, and felt only the cold weight of chains. I clung to the thought of you—your voice, your warmth, the way you used to tease me when I struggled to tie my shoes. I survived because of you.

But when I was finally freed, when I could finally come home, they told me you were gone. They told me you had waited for me, but time had stolen you away. I have searched for you, but I do not know where to begin. If this letter reaches you, please, Mei Juan, tell me you are still there. Tell me you are still waiting.

Yours, always,

Wei Guo

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December 15, 1945

To My Dearest Wei Guo,

I do not know if I should weep for joy or collapse under the weight of my sorrow. You are alive. After all these years, after all my prayers, you are alive. But my heart aches, Wei Guo, because I had given up hope. I had come to believe the cruel whispers that you were gone forever.

I waited, my love. I waited until my hair turned grey with sorrow, until my body ached from years of longing. When they told me you had perished, I mourned you as a widow does. I lit incense for you every year, spoke to you in my prayers, and lived my life in quiet devotion to a memory.

But I cannot turn back time. I am no longer the young girl who waited by the door, watching the road. The world has changed. And so have I.

Yours, but no longer waiting,

Mei Juan

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December 21, 1993

My Dearest Wei Guo,

Fifty-four years. A lifetime was spent waiting, whispering your name into the night, wondering if the stars could carry my love to wherever you had gone. When they told me you had perished, I mourned you as a widow does. I lit incense for you every year, spoke to you in my prayers, and lived my life in quiet devotion to a memory.

And yet today, you stood before me. An old man now, with trembling hands and eyes full of stories I was never a part of. You have a wife, children, grandchildren—your life continued while mine stood still. And I… I do not know what to feel. Do I cry for the years we lost? Do I rejoice that you are alive? Or do I grieve for the love that time has stolen from us?

Tell me, Wei Guo, did you ever think of me? Did the love we shared slip through the cracks of time, lost beneath the weight of war and duty? I do not blame you. Life is relentless—it moves forward even when our hearts beg it to stop.

The moment I saw you, I felt my breath hitch, as if my heart itself could not decide whether to beat in joy or sorrow. The years have been kind to you, and yet I see the burdens in your eyes. You hesitated before speaking my name, your lips trembling like you had to unearth something long buried.

You told me what happened. How you were wounded, lost, and taken in by a family in a distant village. How you searched at first but were told I had perished, how you eventually built a life because there was nothing left to return to. How cruel fate has been to both of us, playing with time and twisting the threads of our lives into knots neither of us can untangle.

I have no husband, and no children. I gave my life to waiting. And now, I must find a way to let go.

This will be my last letter to you. There is nothing more to say, nothing more to hope for. My love for you has never faded, but it now belongs to the past. Like the ink on this page, it will remain, untouched, unchanging—a relic of a love that once was.

Goodbye, my love.

Yours, always,

Mei Juan