Off-Script || ENJOYJUNE

Chapter 20: Letters Between Time Zones

June’s first week in Berlin felt like diving into another life. Jet lag clung to her skin, and unfamiliar accents made her hesitate before every interaction. The cold pierced through her coats, the kind of cold that no Bangkok humidity could ever prepare her for. Still, she immersed herself in the work. The production moved fast. The cast and crew were sharp. The scenes demanded honesty, grief, longing. She played Liora, a woman haunted by a love she had once chosen to leave behind. It was not difficult to connect with the emotion. Not when the distance between herself and Enjoy stretched across countries and oceans.

Her days were long, full of direction and intensity. But her nights were hollow.

She could not fall asleep in silence. The absence of a familiar body next to her felt louder than any noise. In response, she began writing. Not just messages or emails. Real letters. Ink on paper. Sent with stamps and hope. Every evening, she sat at the desk in her hotel room and poured her day into sentences, her longing into lines.

Day One:

Enjoy,

Berlin is gray. A beautiful gray, if that makes sense. The buildings look like stories waiting to be told. I passed a bakery on the corner this morning. The smell reminded me of the one near our old apartment. I didn’t go inside. I want to wait and try it with you. Work is good. Challenging. Every scene leaves me tired in a good way. But I miss you. I miss waking up with your arm around me and your hair in my mouth. I even miss your ridiculous sleepy jokes. Write back soon.

Love, June

---

Back in Bangkok, Enjoy made a ritual of checking the mailbox at exactly four in the afternoon. The first three days brought nothing. On the fourth, she found a white envelope with foreign stamps and June’s handwriting. She clutched it all the way up the stairs before opening it carefully with trembling hands.

She read it at the kitchen counter, twice. Once with a smile. Again with tears in her eyes. Then she wrote back.

Reply to Day One:

June,

I left your side of the bed messy because it makes me feel like you’re still here. I miss your hair on the bathroom tiles. I miss the way you whisper ideas when you think I’m asleep. I made your tea this morning even though you weren’t there to drink it. The bookshelf finally gave up and collapsed. You were right. It needed screws. I’ll fix it before you come home. Write again. Often.

Love, Enjoy

---

Their letters became a thread connecting them. June’s days in Berlin began with rehearsals and ended with scribbled thoughts. Enjoy’s evenings were filled with the sound of paper being opened, hearts being stitched together from miles apart.

Day Five:

Today’s scene was hard. Liora says goodbye to the love of her life without knowing if they will ever meet again. The tears came too easily. I wasn’t acting. I thought of your voice. Of how quiet the apartment must be without us talking over each other. I walked along the river afterward. There was a musician playing the violin. I imagined dancing with you there, the cold forgotten, your hands warm in mine. Is that too cheesy? Maybe. But I wanted to tell you anyway.

Reply to Day Five:

Not too cheesy. I would have danced with you, even in the cold. Especially in the cold. I put one of your hoodies on Mochi. He hated it. I laughed for ten minutes. I think the neighbors think I’m unstable. Maybe I am. Missing you does that. I put together a scrapbook of us. So when you come back, you’ll see how much you were still part of this life.

---

The days turned into weeks. Each letter added to a growing pile they promised to reread together someday. They shared the mundane and the magical. June wrote about the sound of snow crunching under her boots, about the way her co-star smelled like cinnamon and made her laugh too hard during serious scenes. Enjoy wrote about the dog that barked every morning at exactly seven, about the new plant she had managed to keep alive longer than a week.

Day Twelve:

I dreamed about you last night. We were lying on the beach, the one from our trip to Samet. You kept trying to bury me in the sand, but I kept laughing too much. I woke up smiling. I didn’t even mind that the room was freezing. I miss your sun. I miss your arms. I miss arguing with you over which side of the blanket is yours.

Reply to Day Twelve:

It’s not an argument. You always take the whole blanket and I let you. I miss your cold feet on my legs and how you act like it’s my fault they’re freezing. I started sleeping in your shirt. I haven’t washed it since you left. That’s probably gross. But it still smells like you and that makes it worth it. Come home soon. Or send more dreams.

---

The letters became their shared journal. A place where honesty could stretch. Where missing someone did not have to be hidden. Where vulnerability was not weakness, but the very thing keeping them strong.

Day Twenty:

I watched a movie tonight. Alone. I know that sounds simple, but it wasn’t. Every scene made me wish you were there to react beside me. You always do that thing where you whisper commentary under your breath. I used to hate it. I miss it now. I miss everything I thought I took for granted.

Reply to Day Twenty:

I watched the same movie. I knew you would. I laughed at the same jokes, cried at the same moments. It was like you were sitting beside me after all. Maybe love does that. Maybe it bends time and space until it wraps us together no matter where we are. Keep writing. I will too.

---

By the time the third week arrived, their letters had become more than just correspondence. They were promises. Affirmations. Love stories written one page at a time.

They were not together in the same city. But in the soft scratch of ink and the patient wait between envelopes, they discovered something even more enduring than physical closeness.

They discovered that love could travel.

It could cross time zones, stretch through silence, and arrive exactly when needed.