words left waiting.

june.

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long streaks of light across June's kitchen floor. June sipped her coffee absentmindedly, her gaze drifting out the window. The neighborhood was as quiet as ever, save for the soft hum of a garbage truck and the faint jingle of a vendor's cart in the distance, blending with the rhythmic clatter of cans.

With a soft clink, June set her mug down, the nagging thought of retrieving the trash cans lingering at the back of her mind. She glanced at her watch—still early. With a sigh, she grabbed her sweater from the back of the chair and stepped outside, the crisp morning air brushing against her face.

As she walked to the curb, her eyes swept across the street, lingering for a moment on the house with the faded blue shutters. The old place had always seemed out of place, abandoned and forgotten amidst the neat, lived-in homes around it. Her gaze landed on the rusted mailbox, a stubborn remnant of lives that had long since moved on.

Once she returned the cans to their usual spot, curiosity took hold of her. With a quick glance around, she wandered toward the old mailbox, her steps hesitant but driven by something inexplicable. It had always been there, rusting quietly, but today it seemed to call out to her.

To her surprise, an envelope was tucked inside. It was worn with age, its edges slightly curled, but the handwriting on the front was neat and deliberate. Her heart quickened as she reached for it, her fingers trembling slightly.

Almost as if guided by an invisible force, she slipped it out and pocketed it, glancing around again to make sure no one had seen.

Back in her room, she placed the envelope carefully on her desk. For a long moment, she stared at it, her fingers hovering uncertainty over the seal. Then, with a deep breath, she tore it open. As she unfolded the letter inside, the words written on the page seemed to pull her into a story that wasn't hers—but one she couldn't ignore.

Hello Thame,

I'm sending this letter from the country we once talked about and dreamed about visiting—New Zealand. And I'm now here, living our dream, but alone. I'm also planning on staying here for good.

This will be the last time I'm reaching out to you, and I just want to say thank you and goodbye. Thank you for a decade full of happy memories, for always being there for me through the highs and lows, and for sharing your life with me. There are so many things I'm grateful for, and I hope you know how much you've meant to me. Just... Thank you for everything.

I can still remember the first time I met you, Thame. I never thought that the quiet, considerate guy I first saw at the coffee shop where I worked part-time near our university would become such an integral part of my life. We were both so young, full of dreams and uncertainties. You, with your grounded nature, always thinking of others and helping anyone who needed it, and me, running away from things because I was too scared to face them. But with you, I didn't need to be scared anymore. You made the world feel like a place where I could exist without constantly looking over my shoulder.

It wasn't always easy, was it? There were moments—too many moments—when I felt like I couldn't keep up with you. You were always so steady, so determined to chase your dreams. And me? I was always stumbling, trying to find my way. Yet, somehow, we kept going. We kept fighting for something that felt like home, even when the world tried to tear us apart.

Do you remember that time we got caught in the rain during our spontaneous trip to Chiang Mai? We hadn't planned on it, but there we were, laughing like idiots as we tried to find shelter, soaked to the bone without an umbrella. I think that was the moment I realized I had fallen for you. It wasn't the grand gestures, or the big speeches, but that simple, ridiculous moment of laughter shared between the two of us. It was just us against the world, and for a brief moment, I truly believed we could weather anything. I wanted to hold onto that feeling forever.