The Memory of Us

"You don't stop loving someone because the story ends. You just learn how to carry it differently."

Florence turned golden in the fall.

Shadows spilled longer, wine glasses clinked on patio tables, and Yuna had begun to map the city in the soles of her shoes. Every street corner whispered something different now — not new, but familiar in a way that made her ache.

There was something strange about feeling at home in a place where no one knew your name.

And something even stranger about no longer knowing if you belonged back where they did.

She sat by the river that morning, coat wrapped tightly around her, notebook open, pen still.

She hadn't written in days.

Not since she'd sent that message to Eli.

He hadn't replied.

Not even a single dot.

She didn't blame him.

She didn't even expect a reply.

But she couldn't help the sting of it.

The silence that followed honesty felt louder than she was ready for.

Lucia, her friend from the program, joined her on the bench.

She handed Yuna a croissant and a warm smile.

"Still thinking about him?" Lucia asked gently, her accent soft and curious.

Yuna looked down. "Is it that obvious?"

"You get quiet when you miss him."

"I'm always quiet."

Lucia tilted her head. "You're not silent. Just... holding things."

Yuna looked out over the water. "It's been weeks. Maybe that's my answer."

"Maybe," Lucia said. "Or maybe he's trying to figure out how to say the kind of goodbye that doesn't hurt you."

Yuna blinked slowly. "Does that kind exist?"

Lucia smiled. "Not really."

That evening, Yuna returned to her apartment and opened the letter she had never mailed.

The one she wrote in the airport. Before the plane. Before Florence became more than a name on a brochure.

She read it slowly.

Line by line.

Then she folded it again, tucked it into her coat pocket, and didn't look back.

The cohort ended on a Sunday.

There were toasts. Photos. Promises of reunions they all knew would never happen.

Yuna stood on the rooftop of the art building and let the cool wind rush into her sleeves.

Someone handed her a glass of wine.

Another offered a cigarette.

She declined both.

Instead, she pulled out her phone and opened a blank note.

*Dear Eli,

I thought I would write you into everything I did here.

But I didn't.

I wrote myself instead.

And for the first time, I realized how much of me there still was without you.*

*But I never stopped loving you.

I just started loving me, too.*

She didn't send it.

But she didn't delete it either.

The night before her flight home, Yuna couldn't sleep.

She walked the city for hours, headphones in, coat zipped tight.

Florence had become a part of her — not just a backdrop, but a season. A version of her that had cried in bookstores, laughed with strangers, written under moonlight, and let go of a love that hadn't really hurt her — but hadn't fit anymore either.

She passed a young couple kissing in the doorway of a wine shop and stopped.

Her chest ached in the way it used to when she remembered their first kiss. The one in the rain, behind the café, where she first felt like love could be safe.

She smiled at the memory.

Then walked on.

Back in Havenbrook, everything looked smaller.

The buildings. The trees. Even Mocha Moon.

She returned to her dorm first.

Unpacked slowly.

Hung the scarf Lucia had gifted her on the back of the door. Placed a new copy of her favorite poetry book on her shelf. Left a small sketch of Florence in a frame by her desk.

She didn't text Eli.

She didn't tell anyone she was back.

She just… existed.

For a day. Maybe two.

Until the silence was too much.

Then, on the third morning, her phone rang.

Eli.

Her breath caught.

She didn't answer right away.

But eventually, her thumb pressed the green circle.

"Hi," she said softly.

There was a long pause.

Then:

"Are you home?"

They met at Mocha Moon.

Of course they did.

She arrived first, sat in their old booth.

Wore the scarf from Florence.

Read a book she wasn't really absorbing.

When the bell above the door chimed, she looked up.

And there he was.

Hair slightly longer. Tired eyes. But still him.

Eli.

He didn't sit down right away.

Just looked at her.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she replied.

The silence settled, old but not uncomfortable.

He finally took the seat across from her.

"I read your message," he said, folding his hands.

"I know."

"I didn't know what to say."

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

She waited.

He exhaled. "I just didn't want to say something that would keep you small. You were flying."

"I still am."

He smiled.

"I was scared," she admitted. "That I would come back and find you gone."

"I was scared I'd still be waiting for someone who didn't belong here anymore."

"And now?"

Eli looked down.

Then back at her.

"You're still you. Just… more."

Her eyes stung. "And you?"

"I'm still me. Just a little quieter without you."

They didn't reach for each other.

Not yet.

There were too many things unspoken.

Too many what now? questions between them.

She reached into her bag.

Pulled out the letter.

"This is for you."

He took it.

Didn't open it.

Just nodded.

And for the first time in months, they just sat together — no plans, no labels, no deadlines.

Just two people who had loved each other in every season.

And maybe still did.

*"Some stories don't need to end.

They just need space to breathe."*