Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My Lina,
You asked how long the nights are here.
I think the better question is how long the days can feel without you in them.
Someone joked yesterday that this place devours time. That minutes stretch and fold in odd ways, like they don’t know how to behave. I laughed because it was easier than admitting I understood exactly what he meant.
I have this feeling sometimes, in my chest and in my bones, like something is closing in. It’s like a sense that the clock is moving faster around me than it is for everyone else.
Like I’m racing something I can’t see.
And still . . .
My mind keeps drifting to the future we whispered about. The one we made sounds so easy: the tiny house, the squeaky gate, the garden you swore you’d ruin but promised to try anyway. The way you said you wanted a daughter with my stubbornness and your eyes. A boy with my hair and your laugh.
I hold those things close, tighter than I probably should. They keep me moving when exhaustion crawls up my spine and tries to pin me down. They make the long hours bearable. They make this place feel less like an endless corridor and more like something I can walk through.
The guys tease me about it. They say I’m always talking about you. They don’t understand that I’ve got a home waiting, not just a house.
Home is you.
That’s the truth I’m brave enough to say on paper even if I can’t say it out loud.
I don’t want you to worry. Most days are quiet.
Some are not, but I manage. I think of you singing on the roof for your sisters.
I think of your hair slipping out of that ribbon you pretend keeps it tame.
I think of how your cheeks heat when you’re embarrassed and how you look at the ground like it betrayed you.
I imagine the day I get off that bus and see you first. I imagine you running into me so hard you knock the wind out of my lungs. I imagine your fingers in my shirt like you’re afraid I’ll disappear if you let go.
I imagine growing old with you and telling the story of how we were “just kids” when we became everything to each other.
I know you told me to write the truth, so here it is:
Some nights I’m scared.
Some mornings I’m still scared.
But the piece of my mind that belongs to you . . . that part keeps choosing hope.
If anything closes in on me, I’ll outrun it for you.
I promise.
Write soon. Your words remind me why I want my future more than I fear my present. I keep reminding myself that I’m not finished loving you—this is forever.
Always yours,
Thomas