Episode 13: Letters Between Us
I never imagined how quiet the apartment would feel without her.
It wasn't the absence of sound, really. It was the missing presence. No sketches spread across the floor. No half-sung melodies from the shower. No sarcastic remarks when I burned the toast.
Just me. And the silence.
Funny how silence used to terrify me.
Now, it simply reminded me of her.
Clara emailed me on her third day in Florence. The subject line was, in typical Clara fashion: "I Forgot How To Speak Human Help"
Inside, a photo of her tiny dorm room. A narrow bed, a cluttered desk, a window facing the street. She looked small in it—but her eyes were wide with wonder.
"I got lost looking for the studio. Twice. A cat followed me for two blocks. I think it's my first Italian friend. Also, my art mentor is terrifyingly talented. Send coffee. Or courage."
I laughed out loud.
Then I replied.
"Courage is on the way. In liquid and emotional form. Proud of you already."
Our emails became daily rituals.
Mine filled with updates from the publishing side—emails from the editor, deadlines, cover design concepts.
Hers were filled with gelato reviews, late-night drawing sessions, culture shocks, and tiny victories.
Each message stitched a thread between us, miles across the ocean.
I had my first official meeting with the editor via video call. Her name was Lila. Young, sharp-eyed, and refreshingly honest.
"I think your story has weight," she said. "But I also think you're still protecting too much."
I flinched. "Protecting?"
She nodded. "There are moments where it feels like you're pulling back. Like you don't want the reader to see everything."
She was right.
There were things I hadn't written. Memories I'd only skimmed. Pain I'd chosen to fold behind soft words.
"I wanted to respect Clara's privacy," I said.
"That's fair," Lila replied. "But make sure you're not silencing yourself in the process."
That night, I thought about all the things I hadn't said.
About the nights I watched our bedroom door, wondering if she'd ever come out again.
About the guilt I carried for not noticing sooner. For not protecting her.
And I realized—I still had healing to do too.
So I opened a new document.
Titled it: Things I Never Said to My Sister.
And I wrote. Not to be published. Just to be heard.
Clara called the next morning.
It was late for me, early for her. She sounded breathless.
"Guess what?"
"You were recruited by a secret Italian art society?"
"I WISH. No. My mentor... she chose me to assist her next project. It's a mural. In the city."
"That's incredible!"
"I panicked and said yes, obviously. But I don't think I can actually do it."
"Clara."
"I'm serious. This is real. And big. And what if I ruin it?"
I leaned against the window. Rain tapped the glass like a soft reminder.
"You once drew in shadows. Now you paint on walls. That's not an accident. That's evolution."
She went quiet.
"You really think I'm ready?" she asked.
"I think you've been ready longer than you know."
Silence again.
Then: "I miss you."
"I miss you too."
And somehow, that was enough.
We kept going.
Her mural took shape—she sent progress pictures every Friday. I watched the wall go from blank to breathtaking. There were two figures in the center, reaching toward each other.
One of them looked like me.
I didn't say anything.
But I cried a little when I saw it.
On my end, edits were brutal but satisfying.
Lila pushed me to go deeper.
The chapters grew stronger. More raw. More me.
Clara read every new draft. Gave feedback, teased my emotional cliffhangers, encouraged me to leave the metaphors behind when I needed to just say what hurt.
"I love this part," she wrote once. "The way you describe how we used to orbit each other but never meet. That's exactly what it felt like."
That was the night I added a new dedication to the manuscript.
For Clara. For all the words we once held in silence.
Now we speak. Now we live.
One evening, I came home to a package.
Inside: a small painting.
A girl, standing at the edge of a bridge, facing a wide unknown.
The colors were soft but fearless.
Clara's note on the back read:
"To you—my bridge builder. You never gave up on us."
I pressed the painting to my chest.
We were walking separate paths now.
But we were still building each other's roads.
And that, I realized, was love too.