Twenty-Eight Stamps [#Wattys2017] || ✓

e p i l o g u e

She's standing on the corner of the street, her wispy blonde hair pulled back into a knot and her clear blue eyes roaming the street in tireless search for a single being.

He's standing on the other side, and his face is as pale as the clouds in the late evening sky, painted with the flush of colour that had risen to his cheeks with his recent bout of running. His breaths came sharp. He couldn't see her, he couldn't hear her, but he knew she would be there.

Was he even going to come? she thought miserably, picking at her fingernail nervously. Had he been lying to her throughout his entire letter? Did he feel nothing for her, was she just a speck of dust for him to flick off the sleeve of his jacket? That was what she felt like.

The streetlamp above his head flickered and eventually came on, illuminating the street.

And then he could see her.

And she could see him.

They saw each other, and they both started running at the same time, hurdling and bounding and sprinting towards each other. He noticed she was wearing his Superdry jumper, a couple of sizes too big on her small frame. Time seemed to slow down, the world a blur as they advanced towards each other. His arms were wide open, and she flew into them, collapsing into his chest and breathing in his familiar scent. She had dreamed of this day for such a long time, unsure of what she would do if it ever became a reality. Now, though, it just felt right as she stood there in the circle of his arms, a source of comfort and warmth and home to her.

He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck and breathed in her rose shampoo, her once soft and silky hair covering his face. He didn't care. Fistfuls of the jumper filled his hands. She had barely changed except for the crease in her forehead and the dark circles under her eyes, and he couldn't bear to think that he had done this to her; that he had put such a beautiful creature into such a state of depression within an inch of their life. He hated himself.

He didn't say anything, though. Instead, he drew back and placed his forehead against hers and they just breathed heavily together for a moment, air mixing.

It didn't matter that there were other people in the street with them, because right then it was just the two of them and the world. And then he reached a shaking hand out, taking a strand of her hair that had escaped its knot and tucking it behind her ear, the same way he had at prom all those years ago.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. She realised he was crying, and it stirred her own tears to come out. "I'm so sorry, I —"

His trembling voice was cut off by a soft, familiar pair of lips pressing onto his. He kissed her back, closing his eyes, holding her against him. The world stopped. Nothing else mattered to either of them. They could have been standing in a burning building, and he wouldn't have cared, and neither would she.

The whole time, the twenty-eight letters lay in the bottom of Hunter's satchel and Hunter's single letter was clutched firmly in Maia's fist. She didn't let go of it, even when they pulled apart and just held each other under the streetlight.