The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you, quiet but final.
And then—
Silence.
No music. No laughter. No hum of hotel air conditioning or muffled voices just beyond a shared wall. Only the soft drag of your suitcase wheels across the floor and the overwhelming stillness of coming back to a life that now felt unfamiliar.
You moved slowly, like your body hadn't quite caught up to your heart. Shirts were folded and placed in drawers with care, shoes lined up neatly, though they'd never looked more out of place. When you reached into the front pocket of your bag, your fingers brushed against something small—cool, worn.
The hotel wristband.
You stared at it for a moment, then set it gently on your nightstand, like it belonged there. Like it was proof that those days had been real.
And then your fingers found the envelope again.
The letter.
Chan's handwriting—slanted, a little messy, but so him—felt like a voice you could almost still hear. You sat on the edge of your bed and unfolded the paper with trembling hands.
You read it.
Once.
Twice.
And again.
Each word held weight. Each line carried the echo of his voice, soft and steady, as if he were still lying beside you.
You brought something into my life I didn't know I was missing...
Not spotlight, not excitement — but stillness.
The ache in your chest pulsed like a quiet drumbeat. But it wasn't sharp. It wasn't unbearable.
It was sweet.
Longing, yes—but layered with something else. Something stronger.
Fly back to me.
Tears stung, but didn't fall. Instead, you pressed the paper to your chest and let yourself feel it—all of it. The love. The ache. The miracle of having found something real.
You hadn't just left a part of yourself in Orlando.
You'd brought something back with you, too:
The courage to believe this wasn't over.
Your fingers reached for your phone, the screen lighting up in the dark. A blank message box waited—empty, expectant. Your thumb hovered for what felt like forever.
And then, finally...
fingers shaking slightly, you typed:
You → Chan :
I made it home.
The world feels quieter now.
But I read your letter… and I felt everything all over again.
Thank you for making me feel seen. For giving me something to hold onto.
I don't know when…
but I promise—
I'll fly back to you.
And you sent it. Not because you needed a reply right away. But because some goodbyes aren't endings. They're just a promise to begin again.