Ezra hated airports now.
He avoided them like the plague — not just because the goodbyes there lingered like old scars, but because every arrival reminded him of what he didn't have.
It had been three months since Talia left.
Ninety-two days.
Twelve late-night video calls. Forty-three emails. And a shoebox full of handwritten letters she insisted on mailing the old-fashioned way — postmarked from Cape Town, filled with café receipts, polaroids of her hospital locker, and tiny doodles in the margins that reminded him she hadn't changed, not really.
He read every letter at least five times.
Sometimes ten.
Ezra was surviving. Barely. He stayed in their city, did his rotation, aced his rounds, kept his world upright and tidy — because if he let one thing fall apart, he was scared everything else would collapse with it.
Still, nothing filled the quiet she left behind.
Talia, meanwhile, was thriving — at least on paper.
She wrote about long days on the trauma unit, about learning Xhosa to better connect with her patients, about the smell of the ocean just a block from her temporary flat. There were nights she couldn't stop crying from the heartbreak of seeing too much pain in one shift… and mornings where she stood on the balcony, sipping bitter instant coffee and watching the sun rise, thinking about Ezra.
Missing him was like an ache that lived inside her ribs — not loud, but ever-present. Familiar.
Some nights she fell asleep in her scrubs, phone clutched in hand, waiting for the green light that meant he was online.
Sometimes, it never came.
One Tuesday morning, Ezra received a package that was not a letter.
It was a small box, wrapped in brown paper, tied with a string.
Inside was a tiny, wooden figurine of an owl wearing glasses — hand-carved and painted with messy brush strokes. A note was tucked underneath:
"Saw this at a street market. Thought of you immediately.
Wise. A little awkward. Kind eyes.
Also: totally judging me for skipping rounds to sneak off for pad thai.
I miss you. I miss us.
—T"
Ezra stared at it for a long time.
Then he placed the owl on his desk, beside her old scrunchie — the one she left behind without realizing.
That night, he finally hit "send" on an email he'd written and rewritten a hundred times.
To: Talia Harper
Subject: Time Zones Suck
From: Ezra
Hey Trouble,
I almost didn't write this.
Because it feels unfair to say it when I can't say it to your face. But here it is:
I miss you so much it hurts.
Not just the big things — like how you'd drag me out to walk after class or the way you made me dance to music I swore I hated. But the small things, too. The way you always steal the last bite. The smell of your shampoo on my pillow.
I'm proud of you. Like, crazy proud. You're living this wild dream and doing it with fire and guts and heart. But part of me wishes I could sit beside you for five minutes and just be.
No hospital. No time zones. Just us.
You once said that choosing each other wouldn't be easy. That love might feel like pulling in opposite directions. But I'm not pulling away, Talia. I'm still here.
So if you're still choosing me… say so.
Write back. Or don't. I'll know either way.
Love,
Ezra
It took five days for her to reply.
And when she did, it wasn't by email.
Ezra found the envelope in his mailbox — pale blue, the handwriting instantly familiar.
Inside was a single photograph: Talia, standing in front of a hospital sign, grinning ear to ear, wind tangling her hair.
On the back, she'd written:
I choose you.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Whatever city. Whatever time zone. Whatever storm.
I'll find my way back.
Always.
—Talia
Ezra pressed the photo to his chest, eyes closed, breath shaky.
And in that moment, it didn't matter that she was oceans away. It didn't matter that she couldn't be there to hold his hand or fall asleep beside him.
Because love wasn't just the warmth of her skin or the curve of her smile.
It was this.
A postcard from across the world.
A promise, handwritten.
A heart held in trust.