LETTER'S THAT LED ME BACK TO YOU
Elara stood rigid on the library linoleum, the paper warm in her hand, a counterpoint to the cold dread settling in her stomach. Two years of absolute silence, and this was his first calculated move: a letter. She didn't open it right away; she couldn't. She didn't look at Adrian. She just stared at the familiar ink, a pattern she knew better than her own signature, a signature she'd mourned.
"You're really going to make me read this now, after all this time?" she asked, her voice flat, devoid of the emotion threatening to choke her.
"Take it home. Read it when you're ready, or burn it," Adrian replied, taking a measured step back, re-establishing a safe physical distance. "It's the letter I should have given you the day I left. It explains the decision, not the cruelty of the execution."
She slid the note into the back pocket of her jeans without looking at it again. "It changes nothing about the last two years."
"Maybe," he conceded, his eyes full of the same weary regret that had marked him since his return. "But it's a start to the conversation we needed to have."
She turned and walked out of the library, the scent of him—wood, old paper, mint—and the unbearable weight of his apology trailing her like smoke.
Back in her shared dorm room, Mia was precisely where Elara expected her to be: hunched over her laptop, scrolling through academic journals. But she looked up instantly when the door clicked shut.
"Well?" Mia prompted, her hands flying off the keyboard. "Did you scream? Did you cry? Did you hit him with a textbook?"
Elara pulled the folded paper out. It felt lighter than a feather, yet heavier than a stone. "He gave me this."
Mia carefully took the small sheet of paper, her expression instantly serious. "The return receipt for two years of lost time?" She didn't open it. "It's thin. Two years of regret summed up on a single page? That's insulting."
"He said he thought leaving was the noble thing," Elara muttered, peeling off her jacket and sitting heavily on the edge of her bed. "He thought he was setting me free so I could pursue my writing without distraction."
Mia placed the letter gently back in Elara's hand. "Wow. The noble idiot routine. Classic Adrian. He always thought he knew best for everyone, didn't he? Now you have to decide if that arrogance is still the defining part of the package, or if he genuinely understands how much he hurt you."
Elara unfolded the letter, her hands shaking slightly, the tiny creases in the paper sharp against her skin. The handwriting, once a source of deep comfort, now felt accusatory.
Elara,
If you are reading this, I am already gone. And I know there are no words that can forgive me for the cowardice of this departure. The truth is, I failed us both, not in leaving, but in how I did it. I couldn't face your disappointment, so I ran from it.
The rest of the page was a raw, detailed confession. He hadn't just gotten a scholarship; he had secured a highly competitive, non-deferrable music fellowship in Germany that demanded an immediate, non-negotiable commitment to a remote, grueling schedule. He described the agonizing choice, the late-night panic attacks, and his fear that if he told her, she would sacrifice her own budding career in literature to follow him, or worse, that he would choose her over the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, only to resent her later.
I was afraid of choosing the wrong thing, Elara, so I chose the middle ground: to leave before either of us could make a permanent mistake. I convinced myself that if I broke your heart now, it would allow you to heal and grow without the heavy anchor of a long-distance relationship and my own preoccupation. I convinced myself that time apart would make you stronger, faster.
I was wrong. I was arrogant. I was selfish. I broke you instead of setting you free. I have spent every day since regretting that choice and facing the profound solitude I earned.
I'm back now. I deserve your anger, and I don't expect you to forgive me. But I need you to know: I didn't stop loving you. I just stopped trusting myself to love you properly while chasing a dream.
—A.
Elara finished reading and let the paper fall onto her blanket. The words weren't a fix; they were a mirror, reflecting all the years of pain back at her, confirming that the reason for his departure, while rooted in a misguided love, only highlighted his immense failure to trust her resilience and strength.
"Well?" Mia asked quietly, now sitting beside her. "Did it help?"
"He was afraid," Elara said, her throat tight, reaching for her blue notebook. "He thought he was protecting my future by removing himself from it."
"And what do you think?"
Elara picked up her faded blue notebook. She didn't open it, but she held it, tracing the worn edges. "I think the Adrian I knew would have asked. The Adrian who just walked back in didn't. And now, I have to work alongside him. I'm stuck in a professional partnership with the person who broke my heart."
"No, you're not stuck," Mia countered firmly, taking her hand. "You're free, Elara. You're the one who survived two years of silence. He's the one fighting to come back. Now you have the power. You can ignore him, you can yell at him, or you can hear him out. But whatever you do, you have to choose to trust yourself first, not him. You're the hero of this story, not the victim."
Elara looked down at the notebook in her hand—a collection of unsent words. Then she looked at the single letter on her bed—Adrian's single, belated attempt to communicate. It was an unbearable irony.
The next time she saw him would be in Professor Dawes's class, where he would be her teaching assistant, grading her work, and walking in and out of her life on a schedule. The simple truth was, she couldn't avoid him.
I have to talk to him again, she realized. I have to find out if the Adrian who left is the same one who just returned.
She stood up, folding his letter neatly and tucking it into the faded blue notebook, right after her last, angry entry—a response-in-waiting for his return.