Ink and Heartstrings

39. A Suitcase of Silence

Maria's Journal Entry
June 2nd – 9:42 AM – Window Seat, Flight 219

The sky feels heavier when you're carrying your life in a suitcase.

There's something deeply strange about flying toward something you once thought you were leaving behind. Last time I landed in this city, I was running on hope, on adrenaline, on the idea of love being enough to justify a surprise proposal. And maybe it was. But this time... this time, I'm not here just for love. I'm here for me.

I got the job.

I said yes.

And now I have to make it mean something.

I keep telling myself I'm brave. That I've been brave before. That I can do this again. But that little voice inside—the one that whispers all the ways I might fall apart—won't shut up. What if I don't fit here? What if the city that once gave me magic now only hands me Monday mornings and loneliness?

Still. I came. I said goodbye. I'm in the sky now.

There's no turning back.

The landing was gentle—far too gentle for how loud Maria's heart was beating. As the wheels touched the tarmac, her fingers tightened around her phone. She hadn't even gotten up from her seat before she started typing.

To: Alan
"Landed. City looks... just like I remember. A little less scary this time. Heading your way soon."

To: Mom & Dad
"Safe and sound. Just landed. The flight was smooth, no turbulence, except the emotional kind. Will text when I reach the apartment. Love you both already."

She attached a blurry picture of the view from her window—blue sky, endless clouds, and the faint curve of the city below.

Her phone buzzed back quickly.

Alan:
"You just made my Monday twenty times better. Place is ready. Coffee's waiting. And yes, I bought that weird oat milk you like. Come home."

Elena (Mom):
"Already counting the days till you're back. Make sure they treat you right. And eat. Proper food. No granola bars and poetry."

Richard (Dad):
"Remember, you've always been the clever one. Be as bold as your books. And if anyone gives you trouble, tell them your father has a hammer and no patience."

Maria laughed softly through the tears that had been threatening since touchdown. Even in their distance, they found ways to hold her steady.

The drive to Alan's place felt like threading a familiar path in a dream—everything just as she remembered, but slightly out of focus. When the cab stopped, Maria stepped out with a deep breath and took in the building. It hadn't changed. The ivy still crawled up the side, the windows still caught the afternoon light just right, and the front steps still looked like they held stories.

Alan opened the door before she could knock.

He wasn't dressed up. Just soft jeans, a maroon hoodie, and that ridiculous pair of socks with tiny typewriters on them that she had once mockingly bought him for Christmas.

His arms were open before she reached him.

Alan:
(softly) "Welcome back, you literary storm."

Maria:
(sinking into his chest) "I think I've upgraded to emotional hurricane."

They stayed there, in that embrace, longer than necessary, until Maria's suitcase toppled gently to the side and startled them both.

Maria:
(smiling into his shoulder) "Guess my luggage's done being subtle."

Inside, the apartment looked transformed. Not entirely changed—just... adapted. There was a new desk in the corner, clearly meant for her. A coffee shelf had been reorganized to include her absurd tea collection. A single framed photo—her proposal, blurry and perfect—stood on the bookshelf like a quiet anchor.

She sat on the couch, staring blankly at the view through the tall windows. The city sprawled ahead, the sky stretched wide, and for a long moment, she didn't speak.

Alan brought over her favorite mug, sat beside her, and gently bumped his shoulder against hers.

Alan:
"You're allowed to just... be. No pressure today. No bravado. Not even a metaphor."

Maria:
(quietly) "It feels real now. All of it. Like I stepped out of a novel and into something terrifyingly alive."

Alan:
"That's because you did. But hey, I've read the sequel. The heroine always figures it out."

Maria:
(laughing) "Is this the part where we introduce a wise sidekick who also does laundry?"

Alan:
"Already cast myself in the role. Wait till you see my motivational dance routines."

They laughed, and in that laughter was everything they hadn't said in weeks—the anxiety, the longing, the way they missed each other in every corner of their day.

Later, after unpacking and watching the city fade into the quiet of evening, Maria texted her parents again.

Maria (Group Chat):
"I'm here. Really here. It's beautiful and terrifying and quiet all at once. Alan's place is warm. Feels like the edge of something good. Will video call tomorrow. Love you endlessly."

Her mother replied with three heart emojis and a gif of a cat aggressively unpacking a suitcase. Her father sent a thumbs-up and a picture of the living room clock, captioned: "Already counting the hours."

Faye responded with a cheeky gifs as well.

Maria smiled. Not everything was easy. Not everything would be. But for now, she had a week to breathe, to reacquaint herself with the city, and to walk through its streets not as a visitor, but as someone who had chosen this path—even with all its unknowns.

Maria's Journal Entry – 11:08 PM

The sky looked the same tonight, but I don't.

It's strange, this kind of courage. The quiet kind. The one that doesn't roar, but walks beside you in silence, waiting patiently for you to notice it's there.

I'm here. I made it back. Not just to the city. But to myself.