Claire,

I've been sitting here for an hour, watching the cursor blink on a blank screen, then remembering I'm using the old Royal Quiet De Luxe instead. Some habits die hard. The keys feel heavier tonight, each letter requiring intention in a way that typing never does.

Your letter arrived Thursday. I've read it enough times that the creases are wearing thin where I fold it. You write about the gallery opening, the way the light caught that sculpture you've been working on for months. I can see it—the way your hands move when you're explaining something you care about, how you pause mid-sentence when you're searching for exactly the right word.

Distance has a way of clarifying things, doesn't it? Not in the romantic comedy sense where everything becomes simple, but in the way that absence makes the small details impossibly vivid. I remember the sound your coffee cup makes against the saucer in the morning. I remember how you read with your index finger tracing the lines, unconsciously, like you're conducting the words.

I'm not writing to say I miss you, though I do. I'm writing because I want you to know that loving someone doesn't always announce itself with grand gestures certainty. Sometimes it's quieter than that. Sometimes it's the realization that your thoughts have become conversations with someone who isn't there.

The apartment feels different with your books gone from the shelf. Not empty, exactly, but reorganized in a way that makes me notice what remains. Your copy of Neruda is still here—you left it deliberately, I think, marked at "Love Sonnet XVII." I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. Subtle as a brick through a window, but I appreciate the sentiment.

I don't know what happens next. Geography is a problem complicated, and we're both stubborn enough to make this harder than it needs to be. But I wanted you to know that some Tuesday at 4 AM, someone was thinking about the way you laugh at your own jokes before you finish telling them, and the way you hold books like they might try to escape.

Take care of yourself, Claire. Send more letters if you feel like it. I'll be here, making coffee for two out of habit and reading books you recommended.