A full year passed.
Ella marked the time not in months or holidays, but in letters — hand-written, folded with care, sealed with a K.B. on the corner. They arrived twice a week, sometimes more. Sometimes less, when his deadlines overwhelmed him. But always, they came.
And always, she replied.
The distance had been difficult at first. Video calls blurred. Schedules clashed. Loneliness crept in on rainy nights. But each letter stitched a little hope back into the seams of her days.
She kept them in a wooden box beneath her bed, tied with a ribbon the color of old parchment. On days when she missed his voice, she'd read them out loud, pretending he was beside her, breathing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
She still hadn't opened the note labeled "For when you miss me more than usual."
It sat at the bottom of the box, untouched. Waiting.
But today was different.
It was the anniversary of his departure. The ache returned stronger than usual. The weight of every "I love you" spoken across distance. The longing to feel him in a way words could no longer satisfy.
She sat by the window, rain streaking down the glass, and opened the envelope with trembling fingers.
Inside was a single sheet. One sentence:
"Turn around."
Her breath hitched.
She did.
And there he was.
Kieran.
Standing in the doorway of her dorm, soaked from the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, holding a crumpled bouquet of daisies and a shy, knowing smile.
"Hi," he said softly.
She dropped the letter.
"Kieran," she whispered, already running to him.
He caught her as she flung her arms around him, lifting her off the ground, spinning once before burying his face in her neck.
"You're real," she cried.
"I couldn't stay away any longer," he murmured. "The fellowship's on break. I wanted… needed to see you."
She pulled back, eyes wide with wonder and disbelief. "You tricked me."
"I wanted it to feel like one of the letters," he said, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek. "A surprise. A page turned."
She kissed him then — fiercely, fully, no punctuation. Just run-on joy.
When they finally broke apart, he handed her the daisies. "They're squished."
"They're perfect," she laughed, cradling them like treasure.
They curled up on her bed, side by side, reading through their journal again — the one they'd filled before he left. Laughing. Crying. Remembering.
He pointed to a line she'd written.
"If love is a sentence, then I want to be your favorite phrase."
"I read that on bad days," he said. "And it always got me through."
She touched his cheek. "Stay?"
"For a while," he promised. "And after the next term, I'll apply for placements closer to here. Or maybe you can come to New York for the summer."
She smiled. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
Outside, the rain slowed to a whisper.
Inside, two hearts — once hidden behind paper and ink — beat as one again.
No longer a secret.
No longer just admiration.
But love. Lived.
---
Epilogue
One year later, their first poetry collection — The Secret Admirer — was published.
It was a series of letters, poems, and journal entries. A love story told in fragments, stitched into something whole.
The dedication read:
To the girl who found my words — and stayed to write the rest with me.
And in the back, handwritten in ink:
"If you're reading this…
Somewhere, someone is watching you from across a room.
And they're already falling.
Write back."
The End