Still With You
"Some love stories don't end. They just learn how to stay — even when everything else moves on."
The letter sat on his desk for three days.
Eli didn't open it right away.
He stared at it sometimes — after his shift at Mocha Moon, after brushing his teeth, after pouring coffee he no longer drank past noon.
It wasn't fear.
It was reverence.
Because he knew that whatever she wrote inside, it would change something. Even if only within him.
And part of him wasn't ready for change.
Not yet.
Yuna didn't wait for a reply.
She didn't reach out again.
She went about her days — slowly, softly — like someone relearning the texture of a familiar world.
Classes resumed.
Mina was her usual whirlwind of energy, already planning graduation outfits and teasing Yuna about returning "all worldly and poetic."
Yuna laughed, played along.
But sometimes she found herself staring at doorways. Wondering if Eli might appear.
Not because she needed him to.
But because she wanted to know if wanting was still enough.
The fourth day after the café — Eli opened the letter.
It was handwritten.
Folded twice.
No envelope.
Just her looping script and a pressed flower he knew she'd picked in Florence.
Eli,
This isn't a goodbye.
*You were never something I wanted to leave behind.
I left to find myself.
And I did.
But what I also found — through every city street, every silent room, every page I wrote — was this truth:*
You are still the only place that ever felt like home.
*I don't know what comes next.
I'm not asking for certainty. Or promises. Or forever.
Just one more beginning.*
If you want it too.
*Love,
Yuna.*
He read it twice.
Then again.
Then he placed it on his pillow, grabbed his coat, and left without locking the door.
She was walking out of the library when he found her.
He didn't call her name.
Just walked beside her until she noticed.
She turned.
Eyes wide. Unsure.
He held up the letter.
Then pointed to his chest.
Then stepped closer.
"You still feel like home," he said.
Yuna's breath caught.
"Even after everything?" she whispered.
"Especially after everything."
They didn't rush the kiss.
Didn't turn it into something cinematic or perfect.
They just stood in the shade of a maple tree, surrounded by the hush of early evening, and leaned into a softness that hadn't broken — only waited.
And when their lips met, it wasn't about passion.
It was about presence.
About coming back.
About choosing — again — not because they had to.
But because they could.
The weeks that followed weren't perfect.
There were moments of doubt.
Late-night talks about boundaries and fears.
Arguments over schedules and priorities.
But this time, they didn't avoid the hard conversations.
They met them.
Because both had grown into people who could hold complexity and still stay.
Eli began taking online courses in business.
Not because he wanted to leave the café, but because he wanted the option.
"I want to build something I love," he told her. "But I don't want to be stuck."
Yuna smiled. "That's all I ever wanted for you."
She was publishing more, too.
Tiny essays. Poems. Personal pieces.
Sometimes about him.
Sometimes about her.
Always honest.
They visited Florence together that summer.
They sat by the river where she once mourned the silence.
They kissed in the wine shop doorway.
And for the first time, Eli said, "I understand why you had to go."
Yuna held his hand. "Thank you for not trying to stop me."
He shook his head. "Thank you for coming back."
Their love didn't explode.
It stayed.
Quiet. Steady. Full of rituals.
Tuesday night takeout. Sunday bookstore trips. A shared playlist. A shared plant that still refused to die.
Sometimes love doesn't look like fireworks.
Sometimes it looks like one person remembering how you like your coffee without asking.
Still with you,even when I was away.Still with you,even when we didn't speak.Still with you,because love is not distance.It's returning — again and again —even when it would be easier to let go.
And somehow,we didn't.