Things We can't control
794 Words
Chapter Ten: The Things We Can’t Control
The letter came in late October.
It was an official-looking envelope with the university crest stamped at the corner. Aiden found it in his mailbox after a long day of classes, fingers cold and tired. He tore it open without thinking—he wasn’t expecting anything life-changing.
But inside was a letter of acceptance. An invitation to join a prestigious semester-abroad program in Paris for creative writing and literature majors.
Fully funded.
Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
He read it three times before he let it sink in. Then, he folded it neatly and stuffed it back into the envelope like it was something dangerous. Something that could burn a hole through everything he’d built.
He didn’t tell Elena. Not that day.
That night, they were curled up in her dorm room, a movie playing softly on her laptop. Elena’s head rested against his chest, her fingers absently sketching patterns along his arm.
He looked down at her, at her soft smile and steady breathing, and wondered how he could ever ask her to be okay with goodbye again.
---
Three days passed.
He carried the letter in his backpack everywhere, like a secret pressed against his spine. He went to classes, walked Elena home, shared coffees, kissed her under fading trees. And yet, the weight of that envelope grew heavier by the hour.
Finally, on a quiet Friday afternoon, he told her.
They were sitting on their rooftop again, the sky pale and gray. Leaves rustled in dry circles at their feet.
He handed her the envelope.
She opened it slowly. Read it in silence.
When she was done, she didn’t look at him. Her hands stayed on the paper, fingers trembling slightly.
“I didn’t apply for it,” he said quickly. “One of my professors nominated me. I didn’t think I’d get in.”
Elena nodded slowly, then reached into her bag for a pen and notebook.
She wrote:
> "When do you leave?"
“January,” he said. “It’s just one semester. Four months.”
Four months.
It sounded short. But it felt like a lifetime.
Elena turned to a fresh page and wrote:
> "Do you want to go?"
He hesitated.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, yes. It’s an incredible opportunity. It’s Paris. Writing workshops in Montmartre. Professors who could get me published. But I don’t want to leave you. Not again.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
She started writing. Then scratched it out. Then tried again.
Finally:
> "I want you to follow your dreams. But I’m scared."
He took her hand.
“I’m scared too.”
They didn’t talk about it again that night.
But the silence between them wasn’t comfortable. It was full of what-ifs.
---
The next few weeks passed in slow motion.
They smiled in public. Held hands in the cafeteria. Laughed during late-night study sessions. But in private, the looming decision shadowed everything.
Elena didn’t bring it up. Aiden didn’t either. But every time they kissed, it felt like a countdown.
Until one night in November.
Aiden stood outside the library, waiting for her.
When she arrived, bundled in her coat and scarf, she could see it in his eyes.
He had made a decision.
They walked to the rooftop together. No words. Just the crunch of frost-bitten leaves beneath their feet.
There, under a full moon, he turned to her.
“I’m going,” he said softly.
Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away.
“I have to. Not because I don’t love you. But because I need to know who I am beyond this place. Beyond us. Just for a little while.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t write. Didn’t sign.
She just looked at him.
And then—after what felt like a lifetime—she whispered, “Okay.”
He stepped closer, his eyes shining.
“El, are you—”
She reached up, placing two fingers on his lips.
Then she signed: I love you enough to let you go.
He pulled her into his arms. And they stayed there, holding on to the last of their time.
---
The night before his flight, Elena gave him a box.
Inside were letters. One for every week he’d be away. All sealed, numbered, with her delicate handwriting across each envelope.
And at the bottom—a final letter labeled: "Only open when you feel like giving up."
He didn’t cry until he got to the airport.
And even then, it wasn’t in front of her.
She stood at the gate, waving slowly as he walked away.
Her voice was soft but clear.
"Come back to me."
He turned one last time.
“I will.”
- Writer
