Open when you miss me

I remember the day I left for Budapest. You stood there with a bittersweet expression, handing me a care package and a bundle of envelopes tied with a pink ribbon.

Your glassy eyes glimmered with love. My own eyes stung. You wiped my tears with a small laugh. “Don’t cry, stupid. It’s just nine months until summer, and we’ll talk every day.”

You hugged me tight, like the old teddy bear you couldn’t sleep without. In that second, the world disappeared. Only you, only me, wrapped in a moment too fleeting.

Your warm tears soaked through my shirt. Bliss never lasts, and your voice quivering against my ear. “We have to let go now, Bryce.”

I held on. “Just a little longer.”

You kissed my cheek, gentle and trembling. “You’ll always want a little longer.”

Our hug unraveled. I kissed your forehead, breathing in the scent of your shampoo and sorrow.

Zipping my bag, I slid your gifts into the front pocket. I waved goodbye, but it was only your puffy, smiling face I saw, burned into my mind like a ghost I couldn’t blink away.

On the plane, I read the first letter. The ribbon was soft, your scent still clinging to the paper. My fingers hesitated, shaking. Could words bridge this distance? Would they hurt more than heal?

“When you’re reading this, we’re far apart. Nine months seems long, but we’ll manage, right? I know people break up in long-distance relationships, but we’re different. As long as we love each other, no distance can separate us.

I remember our night walks when you picked me up from work, carrying a watermelon because I once said I liked them. We’d talk about life and our future under the stars. Remember when you said you wanted six kids? I told you, ‘Not a chance, mister.’ You laughed, saying, ‘Imagine six mini versions of us running around—a house full of life.’

That was the first time you told me what you wanted instead of asking me. I love how deeply you care, but now that you’re alone, please take care of yourself. And I wrote the other letters with all my heart, so you better be happy!

Love you! Naomi~”

I flipped through them—‘Open when you’re sad,’ ‘Open when you miss me,’ ‘Open when you’re happy.’ Each envelope was a heartbeat in my hands, too much and never enough. There was a slip of paper with the rules: NO peeking! Open sparingly, text me when you do, and save them for laughs later.

I tucked them into my bag as if they might break under too much weight.

For the first few weeks in Budapest, your voice followed me everywhere. Every corner of the city felt alive with things I couldn’t wait to share. I called you after class to tell you about a café that sold pastries stuffed with jam. You laughed. “Better save me one.” I stayed up late describing the lights along the Danube, the bridges glimmering like strings of gold.

“I wish you were here,” I whispered into the static of the connection.

“Me too.” Your voice came soft but steady. “But we’ll make it, won’t we?”

“Of course,” I promised, as if saying it made it true.

But promises are like paper.

The cracks appeared quietly—a missed call, messages left unanswered. I told myself it was busyness. We were both adjusting. But as weeks turned into months, those silences grew heavy. The time between your texts stretched thin, like elastic pulled too far, ready to snap.

I read your letters in the empty spaces you left behind.

The second one came on a day I couldn’t shake the weight of homesickness. The city felt too big, too cold, and too foreign. I opened the envelope labeled ‘When you’re sad’ with trembling hands. Your handwriting, looping and familiar, was like hearing your voice for the first time in weeks.

“Hey, you.

If you’re opening this, it means you’re feeling down. First, stop frowning. You’re terrible at it. Seriously, I bet you look like a puppy who lost his favorite sock.

Remember the lake? You hit that seagull with a rock, and we laughed until we couldn’t breathe. Your happiness that day was everything.

I can’t be there to skip stones with you now, but please, go find something that makes you laugh. Watch that stupid show you love or eat too much watermelon. And remember this: You’re not alone. I’m right here, in every word, in every memory. You’re stronger than you think.”

I smiled through tears. Your words held me together like glue between broken pieces. But glue doesn’t stop things from falling apart.

I texted you after reading the letter: “Thanks for the words. You made me smile. I miss you.”

Hours turned into a day without a response. When I called, the line rang—then clicked. Declined.

Moments later, your message came:

"Sorry, busy with work. I’ll call tomorrow."

Tomorrow came and went, swallowed by silence.

I called again, and you picked up.

“Hey, you didn’t call. What’s up?” I tried to hide the irritation in my voice.

There was a pause. Your tone came flat, distant. “Sorry. I was really busy.”

“Busy?” I asked, sitting up straighter. “But you’re off work today, right?”

The silence between us felt heavy, stretching like a taut thread.

You sighed, sharp and defensive. “Bryce, I have other things. Siblings. A house to clean.”

The bitterness in your voice caught me off guard.

“I get that,” I said quickly, trying to calm the tension. “It just feels like you’re pulling away from me. Did I do something wrong? Tell me, please.”

Your breath hitched before you spoke. “Nothing’s wrong, Bryce,” you said after a pause. “Just focus on your exams.”

I exhaled, the knot in my chest loosening but not gone. “Okay, sure. I’m studying. I’m doing fine. I thought maybe we could hang out on Skype next Wednesday. Watch a movie together? What do you think?”

A beat passed. “Watch a movie? On Skype?” There was a small, disbelieving laugh. “Isn’t that kind of... weird?”

“Not if we’re watching together,” I countered, trying to sound hopeful, light.

You didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. I guess.”

“Or we could play Ludo instead,” I offered. “I know you love beating me at that.”

Finally, a spark of your old self broke through. “Oh, you can’t beat me, love. I’m very competitive, y’know.”

The relief in my chest felt like sunlight after rain. “Then let’s do that!” I said, my grin stretching wide. “You free now? We can play a quick round—”

“Mmm, not exactly.” Your voice softened, fading into something half-hearted. “I have to cook.” A pause. “But definitely next week.”

I swallowed my disappointment, forcing a cheer. “Okay. Got it. Love you! Goodnight.”

“Love you too. Goodnight.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen as your name dimmed, the warmth of us slipping into cold silence.

Slumping into the bed, my head boiled with unsavory thoughts. Is this the beginning of the end? I can’t let her go. I have to do something. Anything. Wait, I should write her letters like she did! If her letters are keeping me this happy surely mine would too! Thrilled by the idea I instantly started outlining the letters. Read when you’re happy, sad, angry…

After class, I rushed to buy supplies—tape, glue, ribbons, sharpies. Price didn’t matter; you deserved the best.

You still responded late, but I kept writing, hoping to rekindle the spark. Next Wednesday, I called you for the Ludo match. You picked up as I sent you the invitation link.

“Hey! ready to get beat?” I sat with excitement.

“Hi, I was born ready. But I have to pick up Silas from the kindergarten in thirty minutes. So only one match okay?” I couldn’t tell if she’s really excited or irritated.

Looking down at the phone on the table, I took a deep breath. “What, only one? But we haven’t played for so long. And we rarely even talk. Is everything really fine? You sound kinda off”

She swallowed, “Off? No, no. I’m just tired. That’s all. Just start the game, Bryce”

Unease twisted in my chest as we played in silence, every moment thick with unspoken words. Growing desperate I tried to spark a conversation. 

“So, how is your university application going? I sent you some useful files, hope it helped.” 

“Yeah, I've been really busy with that. There is still work to be done on the essay but I think I can manage before the deadline.” Naomi spoke softly.

Forcing my voice with enthusiasm “I really hope you can come here next year, I planned so many dates here. We can even live together! Isn’t that just great!?” 

Her pause felt heavier than the silence before it. “Yeah... that would be nice,” she said quietly, the words drifting out like leaves caught in slow wind.

My fingers tightened around the phone. “Just nice? I’ve been thinking about it every day. Us walking across the Bridge at sunset, trying all the weird Hungarian food. It’d be amazing, Naomi.”

There was a short, static sigh. “It sounds great, Bryce. Really.”

Just great.

I moved my token on the Ludo board, barely paying attention. “By the way, I have a surprise coming your way soon. I’ve been working on something. A little... gift.” My voice lifted with hope, waiting for hers to match.

“Oh?” Her tone remained flat, unmoved. “What kind of gift?”

“A surprise!” I grinned, despite the sharp sting of her detachment. “You’ll see when it arrives.”

“Hmm,” she murmured. “Thanks, that’s sweet.”

Sweet? Sweet?! The word cracked in my mind like glass under pressure.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What?” Her voice sharpened, wary.

“I said, is that all you have to say? No excitement? No guessing? You used to be so curious about every little thing I did, Naomi. What happened?”

“I’ve been busy, Bryce!” The irritation in her voice finally matched the tension between us. “You think I’m sitting around doing nothing? I’ve got responsibilities. My siblings, studies, everything. I don’t have time to—”

“To care about me?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Her silence hit harder than anything else.

“I didn’t say that,” she whispered

“You didn’t have to,” I said, my chest tightening as the truth I’d been ignoring rushed in. 

"I feel it, Naomi," I said, my voice faltering under the weight of everything unspoken. "Every day. The calls that don’t come, the texts that take hours. You don’t talk to me like you used to."

There was a pause. I could hear the faintest crackle of static on the line, her breath just barely audible. When she finally spoke, her words felt like they were coated in glass, fragile and sharp.

"It’s not like that, Bryce. I just..." She hesitated, and in that moment, the Naomi I knew—the one who always told me everything—felt like a distant memory. "I’m trying to keep up with everything here. School, my siblings, helping out at home... It’s a lot."

Her tone was soft, almost apologetic, but there was something in it I couldn’t place—something heavier than stress.

"I know you’re busy," I said, trying to meet her halfway. "But it’s like you’re pulling away from me, and I don’t know why. If there’s something I’ve done, just tell me. Please."

She didn’t answer right away. The silence between us stretched taut, like a thread on the verge of snapping.

"It’s not about you," she finally said, her voice quiet, almost like she was talking to herself. "It’s everything else. Everything feels so... heavy."

And there it was. In those few words, I caught a glimpse of her burden, the weight she carried alone. I thought about her family, the responsibilities she never asked for but couldn’t escape. Her letters had always been so full of love, so focused on my happiness. But maybe they were her escape—a place where she could pretend, even for a moment, that everything was perfect.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" I asked, my voice softening. "I could have been there for you."

She laughed, but it was hollow, the kind of laugh meant to keep tears at bay. "I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve got so much going on already, Bryce. Your studies, your new life there... I didn’t want to drag you into my mess."

Her words stung, not because they were harsh, but because they were so far from what I wanted to hear. She thought she was protecting me, but all I could feel was the growing distance between us—the wall she was building to keep me out.

"Naomi," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t care about all that. I just want you. Mess and all. Isn’t that what we promised? That we’d get through this together?"

There was another pause, longer this time, and when she spoke again, her words were barely more than a breath.

"I don’t know if I can keep pretending, Bryce. Like everything’s fine. Like I can be everything for everyone and still have something left for us."

Your confession hit me like a punch. I wanted to say she didn’t have to carry everything, but before I could, she spoke again.

"Maybe we should take a break."

The world stopped.

The game buzzed in my hand. Her name on the screen. The little green dot that meant nothing anymore.

“A break?” I whispered, my voice cracking.

“I don’t know what else to do.”

I closed my eyes. A tear slipped down, slow and searing. “Naomi...”

“I’m sorry.”

And then there was nothing.

I took a deep breath, come to your senses Bryce. “Okay, I’m sorry for what I said, I genuinely understand you’re busy. Working on your application, studying for IELTS, taking care of your siblings, I’m proud of you. Truly, I am.” 

More silence followed, My throat tightening at the words “Take a break”. I wanted to say that’s completely unfair. But it’s Naomi. The girl I loved. The girl I cared about. I swallow my pride “And if you really think a break is what’s best for you, then I support that. I don’t want you to be stressed or unhappy. I need to get some things sorted too. Just contact me when you feel like you’re ready, okay?”

Naomi sighed. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t anything I could hold onto. “Thank you, Bryce. Really. I appreciate you understanding. I’ll... talk to you soon.”

Talk to me soon.

The words hung in the air long after the call ended, brittle and insincere. I stared at the screen until it dimmed, the silence growing louder than hope.

For two weeks, I read her letters endlessly, her voice tender and full of love that now felt unreachable.

Open when we had an argument.

I held the envelope like a fragile heartbeat. My eyes traced the familiar curve of her handwriting as if it could reach into the present and pull her back to me.

“Let’s talk things out whenever we argue. I know I run away from my problems, but if I do and become silent, remind me what I wrote here. Call me out for hypocrisy. I’ll probably respond right away. Love you, Naomi.”

Her words struck my chest like a hammer on glass. She wanted me to remind her. She told me to call her out. 

I dialed. The ringing stretched on, every second a wire tightening around my throat. Finally, the line clicked.

“Hello?” Her voice was hesitant, distant.

“I read your letter,” I whispered. “The one you wrote for when we argued. You said to remind you—to pull you back when you ran away.”

There was silence. Not the soft kind. The hard, brittle kind that cut.

“Bryce...”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “I know things have been rough. But listen, I finally finished the letters. The ones like yours. They’re decorated, filled with everything I couldn’t say on calls. They’ll arrive next week.” My voice cracked as I poured myself into every word. “I hope they’ll remind you. Remind you of how much you mean to me.”

There was a long, hollow sigh.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

The world dropped out from beneath me. “What?”

“This,” she whispered. “All of this. The distance, the waiting. It’s too much. Let’s stop.”

“Stop?” The word tore my throat raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“Naomi, no—”

Her breath hitched. “Don’t. Please don’t make this harder than it is.”

“But we—”

“Goodbye, Bryce.”

The call ended.

And there was nothing behind the silence. Just a silence so final it ached.

I didn’t understand. My whole body felt hollow as I stared at the letters, now scattered like shards of a lie. I cried for weeks.

I remember your laugh, the way you twirled your hair, the warmth of your hand in mine. Your scent, your voice—they haunt me.

I remember the last letter I couldn’t bear to open: ‘Open when you miss me.’

Your handwriting stared back at me, familiar and fragile. I wanted to hear your voice one last time, but the fire beside me crackled, waiting.

You weren’t running away from me—you were carrying burdens too heavy to share. I didn’t see it then, blinded by my own pain. Your letters were your way of holding me together, even as you fell apart.

I held the envelope closer, hesitating. Could I cling to this forever? Or would it only keep me stuck in a love we couldn’t save?

With a deep breath, I whispered, “Goodbye, Naomi.”

The paper curled and blackened in the flames. The ache in my chest felt unbearable, yet somehow lighter. Some loves don’t last—but that doesn’t make them less real.

I’ll carry you, not as regret, but as a memory that shaped me.

I remember.