The snow had melted.
Tiny green buds pressed against the thawing branches outside Ezra's window, early signs of spring peeking through. In the quiet hum of a Sunday morning, the apartment smelled like coffee, wet leaves, and old books—Ezra's version of heaven, and now, theirs.
Talia was curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie, her legs tucked under her. The late morning sun streamed in, lighting the edges of her hair like gold. She had a pen in one hand, a sheet of stationary in the other, and a look of deep focus on her face.
Ezra leaned against the doorframe, holding two mugs. "Writing another letter?"
She nodded, not looking up. "To myself. Or us. Not sure yet.
He handed her a mug and sat across from her, curious. "Why?"
Talia sipped, then set the mug down. "Because when I was gone, letters kept me sane. Grounded. It was like talking to a future I hoped would still exist." She paused, eyes finding his. "Now that I'm back, I want to remember this feeling. Not just what we went through—but what we're choosing now."
Ezra let her words sink in. He understood it—the need to hold something still before life rushed forward again.
"We should write one together," he said suddenly.
Talia blinked. "A joint letter?"
"To our future selves," he explained. "For when things get hard again. For when we forget how this feels."
She smiled, surprised—and maybe a little in love all over again. "Alright, Doctor Li. Let's do it."
They sat at the kitchen table, knees brushing, sharing a single sheet of paper. Ezra's handwriting was neat, deliberate. Talia's was loopy and fast, as if her words couldn't wait to get out.
Together, they wrote:
Dear Future Us,
If you're reading this, something has probably shifted. Maybe you're busy, burnt out, annoyed, or unsure about where the hell you're going next. Maybe you've had a fight that left one of you sleeping on the couch. Maybe the houseplants died again.
But before you throw in the towel—or worse, forget—read this.
You once stood barefoot in the kitchen, hearts raw and honest, choosing each other again without anyone watching. You made each other laugh over burnt pancakes. You survived being oceans apart and still found a way to say "I love you" without words.
Remember that your love is not perfect, but it's real. And real things get messy.
Fight fair. Apologize quickly. Dance in the living room even when there's no music.
And always—always—write each other letters. Even if they never get sent.
Love,
Ezra & Talia
They signed it in ink and folded the letter carefully.
Talia tucked it into an old book on Ezra's shelf—The Alchemist. A symbolic home for it, she said. "For when we need to rediscover our treasure."
Ezra pulled her into a hug from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You know," he said, "we should start looking for a new place soon. One with two desks."
She turned, eyes bright. "You want to live together?"
He smirked. "I mean, you already steal my hoodies and rearrange my kitchen."
"And you steal all the covers at night."
"Point is," he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I want more mornings like this. More of us."
Talia kissed him softly. "Then let's build it."
That evening, they walked through the city, hand in hand. Everything felt both familiar and new. The coffee shop where they first studied together. The corner where she once yelled at a cab driver for nearly hitting Ezra. The bench where he told her he'd fallen for her—nervously, honestly, like only Ezra could.
And as they passed the university library, Talia stopped.
"Remember the first class?" she asked, voice tinged with nostalgia.
Ezra winced. "The day I ghosted you? Yeah. Not my finest."
"You were scared," she said, smiling faintly. "And I was stubborn. Maybe we needed to crash before we could land right."
Ezra reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded envelope.
"What's this?" she asked, brow raised.
"I wrote you a letter," he said quietly. "The night before you came back. Didn't know if I'd give it to you."
She opened it on the steps of the library, sitting beside him in the fading light.
Talia,
If you're reading this, it means you came back. And that alone is enough to make me believe in everything I once doubted.
You taught me that love isn't made of just soft moments and perfect timing. It's built in long nights, in messy forgiveness, in space and stillness and showing up.
I'll spend the rest of my life showing up for you.
Love,
Ezra
Talia pressed the letter to her chest. Then to his.
"You keep doing that," she whispered.
"What?"
"Writing things that make me fall for you all over again."
Ezra grinned. "Good. Because I plan on doing it for a long time."