Florence was louder than Maya expected.
The streets bustled, the buildings leaned into one another like old friends, and the scent of espresso clung to the air. Her days were filled with workshops and museum visits, sketchbooks and sonnets. Everything was beautiful, vibrant—and still, sometimes, unbearably lonely.
She texted Liam every night. Sometimes they called. But time zones and exhaustion were cruel things.
She reread his last message again.
Liam: Miss you like hell. Don't forget me out there, okay?
She hadn't. Not once. But the gap between their worlds was starting to widen.
Back home, Liam folded another letter and slid it into the stack under his bed. Week six.
Her words felt closer than her voice. Honest. Tender. Unfiltered.
But his replies weren't letters. He didn't have the gift of writing like she did.
Instead, he left her voicemails—short, unsentimental, full of "Hey, I fixed that Chevy finally," and "Saw that movie we were gonna watch—wasn't worth it without you."
He was proud of her. God, he was. But sometimes he stared at the pictures she sent and wondered if she even missed their tiny town.
Wondered if he fit into the world she was discovering.
Maya went out with the other fellows one weekend.
Luca was charming. Not in the dangerous way, but the kind that made her laugh until she forgot she was 5,000 miles away from comfort.
He complimented her sketches.
He walked her home and asked to see her again.
And Maya, heart suddenly heavy, just said, "I have someone."
But her voice cracked a little when she said it.
Not because she didn't love Liam.
But because love was starting to feel like a memory, not a moment.
Liam called late on a Thursday.
He sounded tired.
"I got offered a manager position," he said.
"That's amazing."
"Yeah. Steady hours. A raise. It's… good."
"So why do you sound like you lost something?"
He paused. "I think I'm scared you're never coming back."
Maya sat on the steps of her host apartment, looking out over the terracotta rooftops.
"I'm not the same girl you said goodbye to," she whispered.
"I know."
"And you're not the same guy."
"I hope I'm still the one you want."
She blinked back tears. "I do want you. But I'm afraid we're writing two stories that don't have the same ending."
"I want our ending," he said. "But I don't want it if it means you give up the best parts of you."
"I don't want to lose you," she said, her voice breaking.
"Then don't," he whispered. "Just come back. And let's figure it out."
That night, Maya didn't sleep.
She sat by the window and wrote one more letter—one not numbered, not scheduled, not safe.
Liam,
I love you. I need you to know that before anything else.
But I'm changing, Liam. In ways I can't unchange. And I don't know what it means yet.
This summer has made me feel more alive and more unsure than I've ever been. I used to think love was the one thing that stayed still. But maybe it's not.
Maybe it's not about holding on too tightly. Maybe it's about learning when to loosen our grip.
If we find our way back to each other after this, it'll be because we chose each other. Not out of habit. But out of hope.
And I hope. I hope every day.
Yours, always, Maya.