CHRIS STURNIOLO IMAGINES

Seven Years of Letters

The summer I turned fifteen, everything changed. It wasn't just because my family moved to a small beach town, away from the busy city life I'd always known. It was because of Chris.

I remember the first time I met him. I sat by the lake, sketching the house I had always imagined living in. It had expansive windows letting in the sunlight, a wraparound porch with flowers in every corner, and a giant oak tree in the backyard where I could sit and read books all day. I'd always known what my dream house looked like; it was my secret haven, a world I could escape to.

Then, out of nowhere, a rock skipped across the water, interrupting my thoughts. I looked up, startled, and saw him standing there with his hands in his pockets—Chris. He was tall, with messy brown hair that fell over his forehead, a crooked smile, and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Nice sketch," he said, gesturing to the paper I was holding.

I blushed, not expecting anyone to see my embarrassing doodles. "It's just... a house. My dream house, I guess."

Chris stepped closer, curiosity piqued. "What's it look like?"

And just like that, everything changed. That was the moment our friendship began.

We spent every day together that summer. We went on long walks, talked about our dreams, and even got into trouble, like when we tried to build a treehouse in that same oak tree. It was a disaster, but we laughed so hard we nearly cried. Nothing ever went exactly as planned, but I didn't care. It was one of the best summers of my life.

Chris had a way of making everything feel exciting, even the most mundane things. We'd sit by the lake for hours, discussing our plans, families, and the kind of people we hoped to become. I remember laughing about impossible things—like the treehouse we never built or our dreams of leaving town to travel the world. It all felt so perfect, so effortless with him.

But time, as it always does, slipped away unnoticed. And before I knew it, the summer was coming to an end. We tried to make the most of every moment, staying out late, watching sunsets, and promising each other we'd stay in touch. But deep down, I knew things would never be the same.

The day my family left, I stood by the car, suitcase packed and ready to go. The air was thick with the last moments of summer, the heavy weight of knowing this chapter was closing. Chris stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, watching me with that same crooked smile.

"I'll miss you," he said softly.

"I'll miss you too," I replied, my voice faltering, trying not to cry. I didn't want him to see how hard it was for me.

"I promise you," he said, stepping closer. "I'll come visit. And you... you'll come back, right? You'll come back someday, and we'll... we'll make the house real."

I blinked, confused. "What house?"

"The one you drew," he said, holding up the sketch I'd given him earlier in the summer. "Your dream house. I'll build it for us. One day. You'll see."

I laughed nervously, feeling the lump in my throat grow. "That's silly. You don't have to do that, Chris."

But he just smiled. "Promise me you'll come back," he said, his voice thick with sincerity.

"I promise," I whispered, even though some of me didn't believe it.

And with that, I got in the car and drove away from everything I had come to love—Chris, the lake, the treehouse dreams—all of it.

Years passed, and I moved on. My family settled back into our regular lives. Though I tried to stay in touch with Chris, the letters we promised each other never came. The days turned into months, the months into years. My life took me in different directions—high school, college, new friends, new experiences—and slowly, Chris became a distant memory.

But I could still see that house every time I closed my eyes. My dream house. I remembered how we discussed it and how Chris promised to build it together one day. And though I tried to push the thought aside, it lingered in the back of my mind like a ghost.

Then, seven years later, I returned to the beach town. My life had shifted again, and work had brought me back to where it all began. I didn't expect to see Chris again. I hadn't heard from him since the last letter he wrote when I was in college, and even that had stopped.

As I drove through the town, it felt like a stranger's place. The streets were familiar but distant, and the lake was as beautiful as I remembered. But something caught my eye when I passed the old park where Chris and I hung out. Just past the trees, I saw a house—and not just any house—a house that made my heart stop.

It was my dream house. The one I had drawn all those years ago.

I slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt. I blinked, unsure if I was seeing things. The house was real, like something out of a fairy tale. It had everything—the wraparound porch, the large windows letting in the soft afternoon light, the oak tree in the backyard. It was like the sketch I had drawn as a girl had come to life. The only thing missing was Chris.

My hands trembled as I stepped out of the car. How could this be? How could this house be here? And why had I not known about it before? I felt my breath catch in my chest as I walked toward the front gate.

Then I heard a voice.

"Y/N?"

I spun around, my heart skipping a beat. And there he was—Chris. Older, of course, but the same crooked smile and mischievous gleam in his eyes remained unchanged.

"Chris?" I whispered, my voice shaking. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," he said, stepping closer, his eyes full of something I couldn't quite place. "It's me. Welcome home."

"Home?" I repeated, still stunned. "But... how? Why is this here?"

Chris looked at the house with quiet pride. "I promised you, didn't I? I promised we'd make your dream house a reality."

I stared at him, my mind racing. "You built this? But how... how did you know?"

Chris shrugged, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "Every day, I wrote you a letter for the past seven years—one for each day. I told you about the progress, the setbacks, the challenges. I told you how much I wanted this house to be real—for you. For us."

I felt a lump form in my throat. "Seven years of letters?"

He nodded. "Seven years. I never stopped. I knew you'd come back one day. I knew this house would be waiting for you when you were ready."

My heart swelled as I realized the magnitude of what he had done. He had built this house for me, for us, for a dream we had shared when we were kids.

I couldn't speak. I could only walk up to him and wrap my arms around him. "Chris," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "I can't believe this. I never thought... I never thought you'd—"

"Make the house real?" he finished for me. "I didn't just make the house real, Y/N. I made it for you. Because I love you."

Tears filled my eyes as I stepped back, gazing at him. "I love you, too, Chris. I always have."

At that moment, standing before the house he had built with love, patience, and hope, I realized that not only had he fulfilled the promise we made all those years ago, but he had also given me something far more significant. He had given me a future, a home, and a love that would last forever.

The house wasn't just bricks and wood. It was a testament to the years we had spent apart, the letters he had written, and the love that had never wavered. And now, it was ours.