The city hadn't changed much, but Maya had.
Adrian saw it the moment he stepped off the plane and caught her waiting at the arrivals gate. Her hair was shorter now, her shoulders straighter, her smile softer but guarded. She wasn't the girl who clung to him at the train station. She was a woman who had learned how to live without him.
"Maya," he whispered, his suitcase handle slipping from his hand.
"Adrian." Her voice carried no tremor, only calm. It scared him more than anger would have.
They walked in silence to the parking lot. He wanted to reach for her hand, but something in her posture kept him from trying. The distance between them was no longer measured in miles - it was measured in years.
At her apartment, everything felt foreign. The couch where they had once curled together was replaced. The walls were lined with books and photos he didn't recognize. She had built a life in the spaces he left behind.
Over coffee, he tried to bridge the gap. "I thought about you every day."
Her eyes flickered, sad and knowing. "Thinking and being there are not the same thing, Adrian."
He flinched at the truth in her words.
She rose and crossed the room, pulling a small wooden box from a shelf. She set it in front of him and opened it. Inside were dozens of folded letters, yellowed and worn.
"I wrote to you," Maya said quietly. "All the things I couldn't say on the phone. All the nights I wanted to scream, or hold you, or tell you I was slipping away. But I never sent them. Because I didn't know if you wanted to hear them anymore."
Adrian picked up one, hands shaking. On the envelope, in her familiar handwriting, were the words: Far From Me.
His throat closed. He looked up at her, desperate. "I never stopped loving you. Not for a second."
Her gaze softened, but tears shimmered in her eyes. "And yet… somehow, you did."
The room was silent except for the sound of his heart breaking.