I write it at 2:43 a.m. on a Wednesday when the city is quiet and my heart is louder than my thoughts.
It starts like this:
*"Tari, I don't know how to say all this, but I'll try the only way I know—honestly."*
---
Dear Tari,
Paris is strange.
It's beautiful, yes. The kind of beautiful that makes you ache.
But also... hollow.
Some mornings I wake up and wonder if I imagined you—your voice, your warmth, your stillness.
Like you were just a soft dream stitched into my loud past.
I've been writing a lot.
You'd be proud.
But sometimes I finish a poem and look around for you—wanting to read it to someone who doesn't just *understand* the words… but *feels* them.
---
I met someone here.
Nothing happened, don't panic.
But something *almost* did.
And I hated that it almost did.
Not because it would've meant cheating.
But because it would've meant escaping.
Escaping the wait. The missing. The hard part of loving someone from far away.
---
He reminded me of myself—the version of me I used to be.
Wounded. Hungry for connection.
For someone who gets the ache.
But he wasn't you.
And when he leaned closer that night in the rain, I thought about your eyes—the way they hold me like they already forgave my worst parts.
And I stepped back.
Because my heart is still yours.
Even when it wonders.
Even when it wanders.
It returns.
Always.
---
There's more I want to say. But maybe I'll wait until you're here.
Because some truths aren't meant for letters.
Some are meant for eyes, and hands, and slow walks at dusk.
Until then…
I miss you.
In the quiet.
In the noise.
In the poems I write but never read out loud.
—Ayanna
---
I save the letter.
But I don't send it.
Not yet.
Because sometimes the act of writing is enough.
And sometimes… love means holding space until the other person can meet you there.
---
Two days after writing the letter, I walk into the café by Rue Montorgueil—the one with the mismatched chairs and mint tea that tastes like childhood.
And there he is.
Tari.
In Paris.
Sitting like he's always belonged in my world, six hours ahead.
---
I freeze.
He looks up.
Smiles.
Not a big one.
Just the kind of smile you give someone you waited too long to see.
"I told you I'd find my way into your next chapter," he says.
I blink back tears. "You came."
"I had to," he says softly. "I was forgetting the sound of your voice."
---
Later, in my apartment, we sit side by side on my little mattress on the floor.
No music. No rush.
Just us.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.
"I wanted it to be a surprise. I needed to see if love could cross oceans without drowning."
He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
"I wrote you something too. But I figured saying it in person would be better."
He reads:
**"This isn't a rescue mission.
It's a reminder.
That no matter how far you fly,
I will always be the boy
who built a home
out of every word you gave me."**
---
We don't kiss right away.
We don't have to.
The silence is soft again. Forgiving.
We lie there, tangled in limbs and laughter, and talk about the future like it's something we can touch.
---
That night, I finally sleep without the ache.
Because sometimes, love doesn't wait at the finish line.
It walks beside you.
Even through rain.
Even through silence.
Even across continents.
---