The first few weeks passed in an excruciating quiet. I kept telling myself that Seraphina would write—eventually. She had to. Training with the Sirens was intense, and I understood that. But each day that passed without a word from her gnawed at me, leaving an ache that settled deep into my chest. I woke up every morning hoping to find a letter slipped under the door or waiting for me in the common hall.
But there was nothing. No letter, no sign that she was even thinking of me.
It hurt, but I refused to believe that she had forgotten. I knew Seraphina better than anyone. She wasn't the type to leave people behind. Maybe her letters were getting lost. Maybe someone was hiding them from her. Maybe she was just too overwhelmed with her new life to find the time to write. But I knew she still cared. She had to.
To fill the silence, I started writing to her more. At first, it was once a week. I'd sit at my desk, carefully crafting letters that recounted the details of my days, the small moments I wished I could share with her. I'd tell her about the orphanage, about how the others were doing, about my training. I'd reminisce about the times we spent together, the laughter, the closeness that still felt so real, so present.
But as the weeks passed and the silence stretched on, one letter a week wasn't enough. I started writing to her every day. Each letter felt like I was sending a part of myself to her, like it was the only way to keep her close. I poured everything into those letters—my thoughts, my memories, my love. I didn't hold back. I couldn't.
"Seraphina," I wrote, my pen moving faster than I could keep up with. "I miss you so much it hurts. I can't stop thinking about you. I keep hoping you'll walk through the door, that this is all just a bad dream and we'll be together again."
I folded each letter carefully, sealed them with trembling hands, and sent them off, telling myself that this would be the one she replied to. I waited for days, each one dragging by as I imagined her reading my words, feeling my love, and rushing to send something back.
But nothing came.
The silence felt suffocating, like it was closing in around me, threatening to swallow me whole. My mind was filled with thoughts of her—where she was, what she was doing, if she was happy. If she missed me the way I missed her. I found myself staring out of the window for hours, watching the world move on around me while I stayed stuck, waiting for something that never came.
I plastered my walls with pictures of us, photos of our time together that I couldn't bear to put away. Each one felt like a lifeline, a way to keep her with me even though she was gone. I found old notes she'd written, little scraps of paper with her handwriting that I cherished like they were sacred. I kept them close, reading them over and over, hearing her voice in my head, imagining that she was still here, just out of reach.
I started to write more. Every day, without fail. Sometimes I'd write two or three letters in one sitting, pouring my heart onto the page in a frantic rush. I wanted her to know everything, to feel how much I missed her, how much I *needed* her.
"Do you remember that night by the lake?" I wrote in one letter, the memory so vivid it felt like it had happened yesterday. "We stayed up until the sun came up, just talking. I still hear your laugh, you know? It's like an echo in my head. I need to hear it again. Please, just write back."
But no matter how many letters I sent, no matter how much I begged the universe for a sign, her silence persisted. Each day without a response felt like a slow unraveling, like a thread being pulled loose that I couldn't stop.
I refused to let go. I couldn't.
I loved her too much.
I started skipping meals, losing track of time. My training became an afterthought, something I did on autopilot as my mind wandered to thoughts of Seraphina. Every minute of every day, I was consumed by her memory. Her absence felt like a weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think about anything else.
The orphanage felt different without her. It was quieter, lonelier. I didn't talk to the others as much anymore. They didn't understand. How could they? They hadn't known her like I did. They hadn't shared what we had.
Sometimes I'd catch them whispering about me, glancing my way with worried eyes, but I ignored it. None of it mattered. All that mattered was Seraphina. And she was still out there, somewhere, thinking of me. I knew it.
One night, as I sat at my desk surrounded by unfinished letters, I felt a wave of frustration crash over me. I threw the pen down, pushing the pile of letters away in a sudden burst of anger. Tears welled in my eyes as I stood up, pacing the room, trying to calm the storm inside me.
"Why won't you write back?" I whispered to myself, my voice cracking. "Why won't you just say something?"
I didn't understand. I couldn't understand. How could she not miss me? How could she go this long without writing, without telling me she was okay? Did she not realize what this was doing to me?
I wanted to believe there was a reason—a good one. I wanted to believe that she was just as lost without me, that she was waiting too, that she was thinking of me every moment, the way I thought of her.
I sat back down and picked up the pen, my hands trembling. I couldn't stop. I had to keep writing, had to keep reaching out. Because she was there, and she *needed* to know. She needed to understand how much she meant to me.
"Seraphina," I wrote, tears smudging the ink. "I'll wait for you. However long it takes. Just please, don't forget me."
I folded the letter, as carefully as all the others, and placed it on the growing stack.
And then I waited. Because she would write back. She had to. I loved her too much for it to be any other way.