Chapter 12 — Letters from Spain
846 Words
The days turned into weeks.
Weeks into months.
And still, every sunrise, Amara found herself checking the mailbox before anything else.
Sometimes there was nothing — just silence and disappointment.
Other times, there it was: a plain white envelope with her name written in Tobi’s neat, slanted handwriting.
Those days were the best.
The first letter came two weeks after he left.
Inside were two pages — written in blue ink, the words uneven like they’d been written in a rush.
Dear Amara,
Spain is nothing like Lagos. The air smells like salt and paint, and the streets are full of color. I thought leaving would make things easier, but I was wrong. Every sunset reminds me of you — of that balcony, of your laugh when the rain started.
I’ve started a new series here. The director says my work feels ‘alive.’ But the truth is, it’s just full of you.
I hope you’re eating well. Don’t skip your meds. Please.
— Tobi.
Amara read it over and over until the words blurred from tears.
It hurt, but it also healed something inside her.
A month later, another letter arrived — this one with a photo.
Tobi standing in front of a bright, modern art gallery.
His smile was wide, proud, but his eyes looked a little tired.
Dear Amara,
The gallery launched today. They called my work ‘heartfelt and tragic.’ I laughed, thinking, “If only they knew the girl behind the tragedy.”
I painted something new. A woman standing under a storm, smiling through the rain. I named it “Amara.”
The crowd loved it. But I didn’t stay long. Crowds don’t mean much when the person you want there isn’t.
I’ll call soon. Until then, don’t stop smiling. You promised you’d live.
— Always,
Tobi.
She kept that photo by her bedside. Every night before sleep, she’d trace her finger over his face, whispering, “Come back soon.”
But distance has a strange way of testing love.
Calls became shorter. Letters took longer to arrive.
And when they did, they started to sound… different.
Dear Amara,
I’m sorry for the silence. The foundation added more shows — Madrid, Paris, Lisbon. It’s a dream, but I’m exhausted.
Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice leaving.
Tell me about home. Tell me you still think of me.
— Tobi.
Amara’s hands trembled as she wrote back.
Dear Tobi,
I think of you every day. The house is quiet, but I fill it with your songs and your laughter — even if only in memory.
I still sit by the window at night, waiting for you.
I’m proud of you. Don’t lose yourself chasing success. You’re already enough.
— Always,
Amara.
She mailed it the same evening.
But weeks passed — no reply.
One morning, she went to the hospital for a check-up.
Dr. Olayemi frowned as he read her test results. “Amara, your heart rhythm is irregular again. Are you resting properly?”
She hesitated. “I… try.”
“You can’t afford stress. Emotional or physical,” he said firmly. “You’ve come too far to risk it.”
She nodded. But inside, she felt the weight of waiting pressing heavier with each day Tobi didn’t call.
Love had kept her alive — but love was also slowly breaking her.
Then one night, while she was sketching at her desk, her phone buzzed.
A number from Spain.
Her heart jumped. “Tobi?”
His voice was tired but warm. “Hey, sunshine.”
“Tobi! It’s been weeks! What happened?”
“Just… life. Busy, crazy, beautiful life. I didn’t want to call until I had good news.”
Her voice softened. “And now you do?”
He laughed quietly. “Yeah. They’re offering me a permanent position here. Teaching. Exhibitions. It’s everything I ever dreamed of.”
Her heart sank a little, even as she said, “That’s amazing.”
He paused. “You don’t sound happy.”
“I am,” she said too quickly.
“Amara…”
She closed her eyes. “I just miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
Silence filled the line — full of everything they couldn’t say.
Finally, she whispered, “When will you come home?”
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But soon. I promise.”
She smiled through tears. “You always say that.”
He laughed softly. “Then one day, I’ll mean it.”
The line went quiet again before he said, almost to himself, “I still see you when I paint, you know.”
“And I still feel you when I breathe,” she replied.
After the call ended, Amara stood by the window, staring at the moon.
She whispered,
“Please keep him safe. Let him come back to me.”
Her heart ached — not from pain, but from longing.
The kind that made time feel endless.
She didn’t know it yet,
but the next letter she’d receive would change everything.
- Writer
