Sofia Romano didn't expect her new life to be so loud.
The city she moved to—crowded, buzzing, impossibly fast—felt like the opposite of Monteluce. Cars honked constantly, people rushed everywhere, and the scent of roasted chestnuts mixed with street fumes and the metallic chill of winter air.
Her first weeks at the culinary academy had been an overwhelming storm of new faces, tougher standards, impossibly high expectations, and a pressure that squeezed her from every direction.
But beneath all of it, woven into every morning, every recipe, every late-night walk back to her apartment, was one name.
Ethan.
She kept a photograph of them tucked in her journal—not even a proper photograph, just a small drawing she'd sketched of them sitting at the river, her head on his shoulder, his hand in hers. It wasn't perfect, but it was the memory that mattered.
At night, when exhaustion settled behind her eyes and the world finally fell quiet, she stared at the drawing and whispered into the dark:
"I hope you're okay."
She still wrote to him.
At first weekly. Then biweekly.
Then only when she had the strength to face the ache of missing him.
Part of her feared she was holding him back by writing at all. Part of her feared that if she stopped, he might think she didn't care anymore.
But in truth…
she cared more than she wanted to admit.
---
Three thousand miles away, Ethan was adjusting to a new rhythm of military life.
Early mornings. Tactical training. Weapons practice. Briefings. Teamwork exercises. Night patrol simulations. Endless tests of endurance.
The demands left little room for lingering thoughts, but the quiet spaces between the noise… those belonged entirely to Sofia.
When he opened his locker, a letter from her rested at the top.
When he lay in his bunk at night, the sound of the wind reminded him of Monteluce's vineyards.
When he saw a recipe video online during off-hours, he wondered if she would critique it.
But as months passed, something uneasy began to form between them—distance.
Not just physical.
Emotional.
She wrote less.
He wrote less.
The letters became shorter, then sporadic.
Not because the feelings weren't there, but because life kept pulling them in opposite directions.
One night, after a particularly exhausting training exercise, Ethan stood outside under the stars, breath cold in the air, sweat drying on his skin.
Camila walked up behind him quietly. "You're thinking again."
"I never stopped," he murmured.
She crossed her arms. "Let me guess. Starts with S, ends with -ofia."
He almost smiled. "You're impossible."
"And you're predictable," she said lightly, though there was softness behind it.
Camila wasn't jealous—not anymore. She had reached the kind of understanding that only grows from a wounded heart learning to heal.
"You could call her," she suggested.
Ethan shook his head. "It's almost morning there. And she's busy. She's living her dream."
"So? Dreams can have phone calls."
He hesitated, eyes drifting back to the sky.
"I don't want to interrupt her life. I don't want to make her feel guilty for leaving."
Camila exhaled sharply. "Ethan… the only one you're hurting is yourself."
He didn't answer.
Because she was right.
And also wrong.
Sofia's dream mattered to him more than his own loneliness.
If loving someone meant letting them grow, then Ethan chose to be silent.
Even when it tore at him.
---
Meanwhile, Sofia was learning that dreams came with sacrifices.
Her professors pushed her to perfection. Hours were long. Competition was fierce. Even the kitchens felt cold sometimes—stainless steel, crisp uniforms, knives gleaming under bright lights.
Yet she excelled.
She worked with an intensity fueled by something deeper than ambition—an ache, a longing, a memory of a man who told her she was capable of greatness.
But some nights, exhaustion brought doubts to the surface.
One evening, after a particularly brutal cooking exam, she found herself wandering the city streets, hands in her coat pockets, breath fogging the cold air. She stopped at a small bridge overlooking the river, watching lights shimmer across the surface.
And suddenly, tears overcame her.
"I miss you," she whispered to the night. "And I don't even know if I'm allowed to."
She pulled out her phone, fingers hovering.
Ethan's contact.
Saved under: My Home.
Her thumb trembled.
She wanted to call.
To hear his voice.
To ask if he still thought of her.
To tell him she was both thriving and breaking at the same time.
But she didn't press the button.
Because she didn't know if she had the right to.
---
Back at the base, Ethan received another letter from Sofia—this one shorter than usual.
Just a few paragraphs.
A small update.
A hint of tiredness between the lines.
But one sentence stopped his breath.
Sometimes I worry that the distance is changing us. I hope we'll still find our way back to each other someday.
Ethan sat down heavily, the letter trembling in his hand.
Camila found him minutes later, sitting alone at a table near the barracks, staring at the page.
"You okay?"
He shook his head. "No."
She sat beside him.
"What did she say?"
Ethan handed her the letter.
Camila read it quietly, and when she finished, she folded it carefully and returned it.
"Well," she murmured, "it looks like she's scared too."
"Of what?"
"Of losing you."
Ethan closed his eyes, pain tightening inside him. "I don't want her to be scared."
Camila studied him with gentle understanding.
"You love her. Still."
"Yes."
"And you're lost without her."
"I'm finding myself," Ethan said quietly. "But she's… she's part of that."
Camila nodded.
A small ache tugged at her—remnants of the love she had forced herself to bury.
"Then don't lose her," she said softly. "Not to time. Not to fear. Not to silence."
Ethan stared at her.
"You think I should write back more."
"I think," Camila said, placing a steady hand over his, "that if two people love each other but walk away out of fear… that's the kind of regret you never recover from."
Ethan met her eyes.
And he understood.
He wouldn't let Sofia fade into memory.
---
Months passed.
Ethan grew stronger.
More skilled.
More determined.
Sofia grew more accomplished.
More confident.
But also lonelier.
Their hearts stretched across continents, tied by threads they both fought to protect.
Still… both of them felt it:
Something was shifting.
Something in the world was moving them toward a crossroads neither could avoid.
And fate—quietly, patiently—was preparing to bring their paths back together.
But not yet.
First would come choices.
Then sacrifice.
Then a moment that would change everything.