A Love Letter Written in Nine Days

A letter I never stop writing and a story I keep living.

We had nine days together.
But when you’re in love, time doesn’t measure the way it used to.
This is a letter. A memory. A love story I’m still living.

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Dear love,

The house feels colder now. Not because of the weather (though it has turned) but because your warmth isn’t here. Time doesn’t know how to count when it’s full of magic. And everything feels changed.

I still walk through the same rooms, sit in the same chair, sleep on the same bed. But nothing feels the same. The smell is different. The air is quieter. It’s not a home anymore it’s just a place I return to. Home, it turns out, is a person. You.

I hold on to your scarf like it holds pieces of you. It still smells like your perfume, familiar, soft, and somehow louder than silence. I bury my face in it and feel the tears before I even realize they’ve arrived. It’s wild how something as simple as scent can break you in the gentlest way.

You were full of small gestures, gestures that spoke louder than any grand speech. The way you made me lunch with such care, as if you were pouring love into every bite. The way you cared for me when I was sick, driving to get me honey, good honey. The way your hand found mine when you drove, without thinking. The way your eyes talked to mine, like they had always known the way.

I used to write about you carefully. I tiptoed around the word love as if it were fragile, too heavy to hold. But now… now I can’t stop saying it. I say it in the morning, I say it before bed, I say it in the middle of our calls when you make me laugh or when your voice sounds tired and soft. I say it, and I mean it. With every part of me.

There were so many perfect moments, but that camping trip, that will always be one of my favorites. Everything went wrong in the most perfect way. The traffic was insane, we forgot things, including the most important one: the tent. And what did we do? We laughed. Hard. No fighting, no blame, just laughter and a scramble to improvise. That’s the kind of love I didn’t know existed before you.

Or that night we tried breathwork. You started with this impossibly long inhale (your lungs are massive) and I couldn’t keep it together. I cracked up. You cracked up. The whole thing dissolved into laughter, and I swear I’ve never felt more alive than in that moment of failing to be mindful with you. Because it was mindfulness, in a way — being so fully there, so present, so human.

Now I try to stay busy and I do. I go to work, I train, I work on my projects. But it’s like something has shifted inside. My energy, the one I always relied on, feels tangled. I try to keep up but something pulls me back. I sit down for a second and suddenly I’m crying again. Because I miss you. Because missing you hurts in a place that is new for me.

We talk every night, and I love our calls, I really do. I love the way you think, the way you speak with so much passion and clarity. I love hearing about your day, your thoughts, your ideas. But after a while, even words feel like not enough. I want your arms around me, your hands, your scent. I want the weight of your body next to mine, the quiet understanding that doesn’t need language.

And no the distance doesn’t scare me. I believe in us. And I hold on to that like a compass. But even with that knowing, the missing doesn’t soften. Some days I feel like I could book a flight in five minutes and run to you before nightfall. But I don’t. I stay. I trust.

Because this isn’t ordinary.

This isn’t some passing story that fades with time.

It’s something that feels written in a different ink. Something larger than coincidence. Something I can only call fate but not the romanticized kind. The kind that shows up quietly, steadily, then all at once. The kind that changes your life without asking permission.

I picture the moment when is see you again like a film on repeat. Me running into your arms, holding on like I’ll never let go. I couldn’t let go last time. I know I’ll hold tighter this time.

Nine days…

And until we have more, I’ll keep holding on. To your scarf. To our calls. To this love that I once wrote about so carefully, and now can’t help but write about with all the words I have.

Until soon.
I love you.

— Belu

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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