Letters I Sent to My Lover Across Dimensions

The first letter vanished the moment I slipped it under the old oak door. One heartbeat it was there, trembling in my fingers; the next it was gone — swallowed by the shimmer of a universe I couldn’t see but could always feel. Every night since, I’ve written to you from this side of reality, hoping one day you’ll answer from yours. Tonight, the air smells of rain and static, and my hands shake as I write the words I swore I’d never send: I found a way back to you.

I met you on a train bound for nowhere. We were both running from something: me from a past that clung like smoke to my lungs, you from a promise you couldn’t keep. The train clattered across iron tracks, sparks flying where steel kissed steel, and you sat across from me with a notebook balanced on your knees. You wrote like the world might end if you didn’t. I watched, fascinated, until you lifted your eyes and caught me staring.

“Do you believe in parallel universes?” you asked.

I laughed, nervous. “I believe in bad coffee and broken hearts.”

You smiled the way stars must smile at black holes, and said, “Maybe in another universe, you’re braver.”

We spent the next six hours trading theories about fate, infinity, and the possibility that we were just flickers on a cosmic film strip. When the train stopped, I almost stayed seated, afraid that if I stood up you’d vanish. But you didn’t. You took my hand, warm and callused, and led me onto a platform neither of us had ever seen before.

For a year, we lived like the universe belonged to us. Midnight picnics in empty stadiums. Scribbling poems on bathroom mirrors. Reading each other’s dreams aloud as if they were maps. You told me once that the air felt thinner when I was gone, like reality itself needed us both to keep it solid.

Then came the night the sky split open.

We were in the field behind your apartment, lying on a blanket under a harvest moon. The crickets stopped singing. The air trembled. You sat up, eyes wide. A fissure of light opened above us — a seam in the sky, glowing blue-white like the edge of a blade. I reached for your hand, but the ground rolled under us like a wave.

“I have to go,” you whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t belong here.”

The seam widened. Wind screamed. Before I could stand, the light swallowed you whole. The blanket collapsed onto grass gone cold. And then you were gone, and the sky was just a sky again.

I spent weeks searching. Police, hospitals, missing persons lists. Nothing. Only your notebook remained, filled with sketches of doors, keys, and strange symbols I couldn’t decipher. On the last page, one sentence in your slanted handwriting: If you can’t find me here, look between the worlds.

I tried everything — meditations, lucid dreams, even physics forums. People called me crazy. Maybe they were right. But then I found the door.

It wasn’t a door anyone would notice. Just a warped plank set into the roots of the old oak in the park where we first kissed. But when I pressed my palm to it, the wood pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. That night I slipped a letter under it, written on the paper from your notebook. It disappeared in a flash of blue light.

The next night, another. Then another. Each one more desperate. Until last week, when I finally got an answer.

It wasn’t paper. It was a feather, black as midnight, tipped in silver. Wrapped around it, a string of your hair. My knees gave out. You were alive. Somewhere.

Tonight, I’m ready. I’ve deciphered the symbols in your notebook. They describe a crossing, a moment when the veil is thinnest — the equinox, when day and night balance perfectly. That’s tonight. I’ve brought everything I need: the feather, the notebook, and the last letter.

I press the feather to the wood. The tree hums under my touch. The plank trembles and a seam of blue light appears. My heart pounds like thunder.

“Are you there?” I whisper.

A voice echoes back, faint but unmistakable. “I’m here.”

The seam widens, spilling light across the park. The air smells like the night we met — metal, rain, and possibility. I clutch the notebook to my chest and step forward. The ground shivers. My skin prickles. I’m crossing.

For a heartbeat, everything is sound and color, a kaleidoscope of stars and ink and memories. Then the world snaps back into focus.

You stand there, your eyes shining. Older, but still you. Behind you stretches a city built of impossible angles, towers like glass spun from dreams. You hold out your hand.

“I knew you’d find me,” you say.

“I never stopped writing,” I whisper.

You take my hand, fingers warm against mine, and the city hums with a life I can almost taste. Above us, two moons rise in tandem. Somewhere far away, a train whistles, carrying versions of ourselves to places we’ll never see. But here, now, we’re together.

And for the first time since the night you vanished, the universe feels whole again.