The letter arrived in a pale blue envelope with no name on the front, just a single word:
TALIA.
It was wedged awkwardly into their apartment mailbox, the handwriting familiar in a way that made her heart stumble the moment she saw it.
She opened it slowly, not yet ready to let Ezra see the tremble in her hands. The paper was thick, the kind people used for things that mattered. Inside, a single page—neatly written, painfully sincere.
Talia,
I don't know if this letter will help, or only complicate things. But I needed to write it. Not to ask for anything, but to finally tell you what I should have said years ago.
I was afraid. Afraid of what we were becoming. Afraid of the permanence I felt with you. I didn't think I deserved it. So I left. Without a goodbye. Without courage. And I carried that regret through every street in Berlin. Every late night. Every sleepless morning.
You were more than love to me. You were home. And I lost that because I ran. I've never stopped wondering if you're okay. If you found someone who looks at you like you hung the stars.
If he does, hold on to him. Let him in. Even on your worst days. Especially on your worst days.
This letter isn't an apology—it's a thank you. For loving me once. For letting me go. For surviving it.
I won't contact you again. I promised myself this would be the last time I let the past knock. You don't have to open the door. Just know I left something at your feet. A truth, finally unburdened.
—Jordan
She stared at the letter for a long time, her eyes scanning the words over and over until they blurred.
Ezra came into the kitchen, fresh from a run, headphones still slung around his neck. "Hey, mail fairy. Anything exciting?"
She froze, the letter dangling in her hands.
He tilted his head. "Talia?"
She handed it to him silently. Watched as he read it once, then again, slower.
When he looked up, there was no anger on his face. Just quiet concern.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I think so," she whispered. "It didn't… hurt. Just felt like a door finally closed."
Ezra folded the letter and placed it back on the counter. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head. "I think I just want to sit with it. For a little while."
Later, as twilight painted shadows across the apartment walls, Talia curled against Ezra on the couch, her head tucked beneath his chin.
"He was right," she murmured.
Ezra blinked. "About what?"
"You do look at me like I hung the stars."
Ezra laughed under his breath. "I think you did."
She shifted to look up at him. "Ezra?"
"Yeah?"
"What if we match into different programs?"
His fingers brushed gently through her hair. "Then we make it work. Even if we only see each other on weekends and FaceTime while eating dinner."
"You make it sound simple."
"It won't be. But love isn't about simplicity. It's about showing up. I'll show up. Wherever you are."
Talia stared at him—this boy who once was a stranger with a shy smile in a too-bright lecture hall. Now her home. Her gravity.
"I believe you," she whispered.
A week later, they both submitted their top residency picks.
Different cities. Same dreams. A shared hope.
But no matter where they landed, something had changed.
They weren't holding their breaths anymore. They were holding each other .