Letters from the Balcony”
Maya moved into the old apartment in the heart of the city, charmed by the ivy crawling up the walls and the creaky wooden floors that told stories of their own. She didn’t expect to fall in love—not with anyone real, anyway.
But then the letters started coming.
Slipped under her door every Sunday morning, always handwritten in elegant script. No name. Just “Yours, from the Balcony Across.”
The letters were beautiful—poetic, soulful, speaking of quiet glances, missed chances, and a love that never dared knock on her door. Whoever it was knew her favorite music, noticed how she watered her plants too often when anxious, even remembered the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.
She started writing back. Just a little at first—notes taped to her window, then full letters left at the base of the old oak tree between their buildings. The connection felt timeless. No faces, just words. And somehow, that made it purer.
Weeks passed. Then months.
She finally gathered the courage to meet him. One last letter:
“Tonight, 7 PM. The rooftop. Let’s not hide anymore.”
She dressed like she was going on a first date with destiny.
But when she stepped onto the rooftop… it was empty.
Except for one thing.
A folded note, resting on a worn-out scarf.
She recognized it instantly—it was hers. One she’d written months ago.
The note read:
“I’m sorry. I made him up.”
It was signed… by her.
She stood there, stunned.
Somewhere along the way, the letters had become real.
But they’d always come from her own hand.
Love, it turned out, was never from the balcony across—
It was from the part of her that longed to be seen.
And finally, she did.