28 Letters to the CEO: A Love Remembered

Chapter 3 – Morning Shadows

Mel snapped her gaze back to the notebook. The pen hovered over the page, but the words refused to come. Outside, the morning sun poured through the window, warm and golden, but her mind was elsewhere—back with him.

She closed the notebook gently, sliding it to the corner of the table. Her coffee sat untouched, cooling in the quiet of the apartment. Shaking her head, she forced herself to stand, stretching her arms above her head. She couldn’t spend the whole morning lost in memories—not today. Work awaited, deadlines to meet, clients to impress.

By 9:15 a.m., Mel was behind the wheel of her sleek, black car, the city streets unfolding before her like a living map of possibilities. She drove with precision, her hands gripping the steering wheel just slightly tighter than necessary. That’s when she saw him—or at least someone who could have been him.

A man walked past a café, tall, confident, with a posture that made his chest ache in recognition. For a fleeting second, her breath caught, her fingers tightening on the wheel. His back was to her, but something about the way he moved—effortless, commanding—made her pulse quicken.

No. It wasn’t him. Just a stranger. She forced a smile at herself in the rearview mirror, telling herself she was imagining things. But deep down, a part of her missed him more than she wanted to admit, a part of her that had nothing to do with work, success, or control.

At the studio, she slipped into her designer role seamlessly. Orders, colors, fabric swatches, client requests—everything demanded her attention. And yet, when she picked up the sketches, she noticed her hand lingered longer than necessary on certain lines, her thoughts drifting to nights when he used to admire her creations, praising her eye for detail.

Mel worked with precision, but inside, a storm raged. She had to hide it, of course. She couldn’t let anyone—especially not her team—see that her mind was elsewhere, that a fleeting figure on the street had undone hours of focus. Her professionalism was a shield, her composure a mask, but the longing beneath it all was raw and undeniable.

By the time the morning meeting ended, she had completed her tasks flawlessly, though her heart ached in ways her colleagues would never have known. Sliding her notebook from her bag once she returned home that evening, she knew what would happen next: the pen would move, the memories would pour out, and another letter would begin.