Long-Distance

Chapter 1: The Bus Stop Min En hated the rain. It made her shoes squishy, her books damp, and her already messy hair a disaster. But today, she didn’t mind it so much. Because today, at the old bus stop on Jalan Merpati, Rui Song was standing there again. He always waited five minutes early. Hair slightly wet, earbuds in, sketchpad half-open. Min En had passed him every Monday for almost a year, and though they'd never spoken a full sentence, she’d memorized the way his hands moved when he drew. Today, she stood beside him. Same bus. Same sky. But something felt different. She glanced sideways. He looked up. Their eyes met for the first time. And then he said it: “Do you believe people can fall in love before they speak?” Chapter 2: The First Message They didn’t talk on the bus. But the next day, a folded note was taped to her locker. “You’re the only person I wait for without knowing why.” No name. No signature. But she knew. Of course she knew. Min En replied with a sketch of the bus stop in pencil, two tiny figures standing under one umbrella. She left it under the bench. He found it. And thus began the silent exchange. Every week, they wrote letters. Sometimes poems. Sometimes playlists. Never once did they say it aloud: I like you. But it was in the way he sketched her smile. It was in the way she started carrying an umbrella big enough for two. They began sharing their dreams, their fears, their favorite books and songs. She learned that he wanted to be an illustrator, that he loved clouds more than sunshine, and that his parents never really understood why he preferred drawing to math. He learned that she used to sing until stage fright silenced her, that she collected postcards but never sent them, and that rain always made her feel lonely—until now. Chapter 3: Before He Leaves On a rainy Thursday, Rui Song didn’t bring his sketchpad. He just stood there, fidgeting with a ticket. “Korea,” he said. “Art school. Four years.” Min En smiled like her heart wasn’t being shredded inside. “That’s amazing,” she whispered. “When do you go?” “Tomorrow.” She looked away. She had imagined this day many times, always with herself being stronger. Maybe she would make a joke. Maybe she would pretend it didn’t matter. But now, all she could feel was the ache of what would never be said. They didn’t hug. They didn’t kiss. They just stood there as the bus passed by and didn’t get on. “I’ll write,” he promised. “I’ll wait,” she lied. Chapter 4: Letters Between Raindrops For months, they wrote. Real paper. Real ink. No texts. No calls. He sent drawings of snow-covered rooftops, cafes in Seoul, a puppy named Bingsu. He told her how the city lights looked like fireflies when it rained, how the wind bit at his skin but made him feel alive. She sent pressed flowers, poems about waiting, and stories about rainy afternoons in Malaysia. She wrote about her grandmother’s cooking, the way the rain tapped against her window like an old friend, and how she sometimes stood at the bus stop just to feel close to him. But the letters slowed down. First weekly. Then monthly. Then… nothing. She told herself he was busy. She told herself his life had changed, and she couldn’t expect to hold the same space in it. Still, she checked the mailbox every Friday. Just in case. Chapter 5: The Last Letter Min En sat alone at the same bus stop. Two years had passed. She didn’t carry an umbrella anymore. Rain didn’t bother her like it used to. Or maybe she’d just grown tired of shielding herself. A boy sat beside her. Not Rui Song. But when she looked down, there it was. A letter. Wrapped in plastic. Left under the bench. She hesitated before picking it up, as if touching it might make it disappear. Her hands trembled. Inside, one page. “I drew every version of you I remembered. But the real you… still makes my hands tremble.” She turned it over. There was a sketch. It was her, sitting alone at the bus stop, raindrops falling around her like petals. But in the background—barely visible—was a figure walking toward her, umbrella in hand. And then, real footsteps. She looked up. He stood there. Taller, thinner, with eyes that hadn’t changed. “I came back,” he said. She didn’t cry. She smiled. He held out the umbrella. She stepped under it. They didn’t need to say anything. After all, love had always spoken quietly between them. Like letters between raindrops.