The Last Letter

Christopher was up late, buried in his work. His hotel room was dimly lit, the only sounds in the background coming from the soft classical music playing through his speaker. It was a habit he had picked up from Teigen—she had told him once that it helped her concentrate while studying, and ever since then, he had found himself playing it when he needed to focus. Tonight, Concerto for Saxophone: I by Philip Glass played, filling the empty space around him.

And then, all at once, the memories hit him.

He saw her, clear as day. Their stolen afternoons together, the way she’d reach across the table to steal fries off his plate during their lunch dates. The nights when neither of them could sleep, so they danced in his living room at three in the morning, her laughter echoing against the walls. The hours she spent curled up beside him, quizzing him on medical terms as she studied, her brows furrowed in concentration. The way she had cried in his arms after a grueling shift, exhausted and overwhelmed, and how he had held her, whispering that she was stronger than she believed.

His chest tightened as he came back to reality. He hadn’t realized he had been crying until a tear slipped down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, shaking his head. He had no right to feel like this—not after he had been the one to hold back, to push her away.

The sudden ringing of his phone snapped him out of his thoughts. He cleared his throat before answering.

"Chris, I need you in Atlanta," his boss said without preamble. "Last-minute trip. First flight out tomorrow."

Atlanta.

The city he had spent two years making memories in. The city where she was.

His pulse quickened. Was this fate? A chance to see her, to finally say all the things he had been too afraid to before?

He didn’t believe in signs, but if he did—this would be one.