The Letter
1066 Words
POV: Amy
I didn’t open the note right away.
I just held it — crumpled slightly from how hard I was gripping it — and stood there on the rooftop long after David disappeared through the stairwell door.
The wind pushed against my body, cold and insistent, like it wanted to carry me forward, take me anywhere except where I was: stuck between wanting him here and trying not to fall apart because he was already gone.
Finally, when the ache in my chest became too big to swallow, I forced my feet to move.
Down the stairs.
Across the hall.
Out of the hospital.
I don’t remember how I got home.
Only that my fingers never let go of the note.
The apartment was dark when I stepped inside.
Quiet.
I set the note on the kitchen counter, washed my face, changed clothes, made tea —
stalling.
Because opening it made everything real.
He was gone.
He’d left.
And behind him was a handful of words I wasn’t ready to read.
I stared at the folded paper again.
Clean edges.
His writing on the front:
For Amy.
My chest squeezed.
I made myself sit at the table.
Took a breath — then another — and unfolded it.
His handwriting was sharp and neat, like he thought through every letter.
Amy,
I should have told you sooner.
I know that.
If I could explain everything now, I would.
But timing isn’t on my side, and I’m asking you to trust me when I say I’m walking toward something I have to face — not away from us.
You’ve only known me a short time, but you see me more clearly than people who’ve known me for years.
You look at me like I’m someone I could still become.
I didn’t expect you.
And I didn’t think I deserved you.
Still don’t.
Last night — under the rain — wasn’t planned.
But nothing has ever felt more right.
If I told you the truth now, you would try to stop me.
And I would let you.
That’s why I have to go before either of us makes the wrong choice.
I’ll come back.
I don’t make promises lightly, but I’m making this one.
Not because I owe you.
But because I want to see where this goes when timing isn’t working against us.
I hope you’ll still want that too.
— D.
I read it twice.
Three times.
Four.
Each sentence was both comfort and wound.
I’ll come back.
I don’t make promises lightly.
I believed him.
That was the worst part.
I folded the note carefully — like it was fragile — then pressed it against my chest.
The tears came slowly.
Quietly.
Not because he’d left,
but because he’d given me just enough hope to hold on.
The next day was numb.
Work blurred.
My movements felt automatic — like my body remembered what to do even while my mind was somewhere far away.
Emma, another intern, bumped my shoulder lightly.
“You okay?” she asked.
I blinked.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
She didn’t push.
I was grateful.
Later, I found myself back on the rooftop — alone — staring at the city.
The chair where David once sat beside me felt like it still held his warmth.
The string lights were off.
It wasn’t night.
But I wished it were —
wished I could rewind time just to sit under them with him again.
I pulled out the letter.
Held it.
Did nothing.
I was still there when Ethan found me.
“Li?”
His voice floated from behind.
I turned.
He tucked his hands into his pockets.
“You look like you’re about to diagnose the entire skyline with pneumonia.”
I managed a weak smile.
“Just thinking.”
“That looks dangerous.”
He came to stand beside me, leaning against the railing.
“You seem quiet,” he said.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Like something’s eating at you.”
I shrugged.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he added. “Just… don’t keep everything inside. It’ll haunt you.”
I snorted softly.
“Is that medical advice?”
“No,” he said.
“Personal.”
I glanced at him — surprised.
He wasn’t joking.
There was something gentle beneath the arrogance.
Something that made me realize his boldness wasn’t just ego.
It was a shield.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
He nodded once.
Then shifted like he was brushing off the seriousness.
“You’re still refusing that coffee?”
“Yep.”
“Tragic.”
He sighed. “I’ll recover.”
A small laugh escaped me — the first real one since David left.
Ethan seemed satisfied.
After a few minutes, he left.
I stayed.
I knew why the rooftop drew me back.
It was the closest place to him I could find without crossing an ocean.
Days passed.
Then a week.
Then another.
We texted — twice.
Short messages.
Safe.
Polite.
How are you?
Busy. You?
Surviving.
Good.
It wasn’t enough.
But it was something.
I read his letter every night.
Sometimes once.
Sometimes more.
One evening, I found myself walking through the city streets without plan or direction.
The air was cool; leaves scattered across the pavement.
Eventually, I stopped outside the rooftop café we’d gone to on that first late night walk.
No lights inside.
Closed.
But the memory was there —
his coat around me,
our fingers brushing,
the way he watched me like I was a story he wanted to keep reading.
I leaned against the wall, breathing in the silence.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number:
He misses you.
I frowned, heart tripping.
Me:
Who is this?
A moment passed.
Then:
You’ll know soon.
Just… don’t give up on him.
The message vanished before I could reply.
My skin prickled.
Confusion and fear twisted together.
I pressed my hand to the note in my pocket —
David’s words like an anchor.
I’ll come back.
But the message felt like something else entirely.
A warning.
A plea.
Or both.
I stared into the night, suddenly unsure if I was waiting for a man —
or a storm I didn’t yet understand.
And somewhere deep inside, a truth I didn’t want to face whispered:
This wasn’t just a work trip.
And whatever reason he left…
was bigger than us.
- Writer
