Elena sat at her desk, the small painting Harper had sent propped next to her monitor. Harper's imagined version of her city was charming—vivid and whimsical, with exaggerated skylines and tiny details only Harper would think to add, like a café with an outdoor table and two chairs.
She picked up her pen and started her reply.
Harper,
Your painting is beautiful. You got the city wrong, but somehow it feels even better than the real thing. I have it on my desk, and every time I glance at it, I think of you.
Work's been intense—deadlines and meetings that make me want to hide under my desk. But your letters make it all bearable. I didn't realize how much I needed to hear from you until the first one showed up.
I miss those days back home more than I thought I would. The carnival, the late-night talks, even the way you'd make fun of me for being so "predictable." Sometimes, I wonder... if I'd stayed, would things have been different?
P.S. Do you ever think about the carnival? I still remember how you painted under those lights. It felt like magic.
YOU ARE READING
Almost
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