I wrote her the night before deployment, sitting on a crate in the dust, sweating through my uniform.

Her name’s Amira. We had shared one dumb milkshake in eleventh grade, and somehow, it stuck. I hadn’t seen her in almost four years—just the occasional tagged post or old memory on my phone. But when I got orders to ship out, all I could think about was her smile. I poured it all into the letter—how I’d never said what I should’ve, how every boring Friday night since high school felt like I was waiting on her.

Didn’t expect a response. Definitely didn’t expect one that long.

She said she’d thought about me too. That she used to wait for my texts, once upon a time. That she was proud of me. And then, three paragraphs in, came the shift—she said she was in something. “Not sure what to call it,” she wrote. “We haven’t defined anything.” That line kept me up.

Still, we wrote back and forth for weeks. Letters turned to late-night calls. Her voice got warmer, softer. She’d ask how I was really doing, then laugh at my awful desert jokes. I started drawing little comics in the margins of my letters—she said she kept them in her nightstand.

Then last week, I get a package from her. Wrapped in brown paper, full of snacks and a bottle of cologne I used to wear. Taped to the top: a sticky note that just said “Thought you could use a little home.”

But right under that was a receipt.

For a second Amazon account.
With someone else’s name in the shipping info.
Same cologne. Same snacks. Same everything.

The name on the order was “Marcus Y.” Never heard of him. I stared at the receipt until my bunkmate, Diaz, asked if I was okay. I wasn’t.

I didn’t want to assume the worst. Maybe she was just buying care packages for multiple people? I told myself not to jump to conclusions. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. My brain wouldn’t stop running scenarios. None of them felt good.

I gave it two days before asking her. Just a text. Casual.
“Hey, got the package. Thank you—really meant a lot. Quick question… who’s Marcus?”

She took eight hours to reply. Eight. I stared at my phone like a lunatic the entire time.

Finally, she sent:
“Oh. He’s just… someone I used to talk to. We stayed friends. Why?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. The “used to” part didn’t add up with a care package and matching cologne. It felt too… familiar. Too intentional.

So I called her.

She picked up sounding nervous. And I could hear traffic in the background.

“I’m walking to class,” she said. “Can we talk later?”

“You said you graduated last spring,” I said before I could stop myself.

Long silence. Then she sighed. “Okay. Look. Marcus is someone I dated. Briefly. It didn’t work out. But we’ve been talking again. I didn’t know it would show up on the receipt.”

That hit harder than I expected. Like someone punched me in the stomach mid-jog.

“So you’re sending him the same package?” I asked, trying not to sound petty. Failing.

She didn’t answer right away. “It wasn’t meant to be a big deal. I care about you both, okay?”

Both.

That word sat heavy in the air.

I kept it together during the call. Told her I had to get back to work. But inside, I was wrecked.

Was I just entertainment for her while I was overseas? Some nostalgia project?

The worst part was, I couldn’t even be mad. We weren’t official. She’d told me from the start that she was “in something.” But still—it felt like a betrayal.

I stopped writing for a while after that. Deleted half-finished letters. Every time I tried, the words came out bitter. And I didn’t want to be that guy. I didn’t want to guilt-trip her, or act like she owed me anything.

But damn, it hurt.

Then, out of nowhere, she stopped calling. No texts, no voicemails, nothing. Just silence.

It went on for almost a month. And in that time, something shifted in me.

I started waking up early again. Running laps around base. Talking more with the guys. There was this medic, Samira, who’d been around since I got there—but I’d barely noticed her until then. We started sharing late-night coffee from a stolen French press. She was funny. Sharp. Real.

She never asked about Amira. And I didn’t bring it up.

Then, one morning, Diaz comes running over holding a crumpled envelope.

“Letter for you, man,” he says. “Looks like she finally wrote back.”

The handwriting was familiar. Neat, curvy loops. But the letter inside didn’t sound like the girl I knew.

She said Marcus and her had “rekindled things.” That she didn’t plan for it, but it just “happened.” That she still thought about me. Still wanted to be friends. Maybe even more—eventually. If life allowed it.

I read it twice. Then folded it, tucked it back in the envelope, and slid it into my duffel. Not angry. Just tired.

That night, I asked Samira if she wanted to split a chocolate bar from a care package I’d gotten. She said yes. We sat under the stars, trading dumb stories from high school. I didn’t mention Amira once.

A few weeks later, we were back stateside. I didn’t tell anyone I was home early. Just flew in, grabbed a rental car, and drove through my old neighborhood like a ghost.

Out of pure curiosity—or maybe masochism—I looked her up.

She had a new profile picture. Her and a guy at the beach. He had an arm around her waist. I clicked the photo. His tag said “Marcus Yuen.”

I closed the app and threw my phone in the glove box.

A week later, I ran into her by accident at a gas station of all places. She was standing by the air pump, hair up in a bun, no makeup. For a second, it felt like nothing had changed.

She saw me and froze. “Kahlil?” she said, half-smiling.

I nodded. “Hey.”

We chatted awkwardly. She asked how long I’d been back. I lied and said a day. She asked about base. I gave her a summary. Then she looked down at her shoes and said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, you know.”

I didn’t respond right away. Just watched a dad wrangling his toddler near the soda fridge.

Then I said, “I think you meant well. But you wanted both of us to be okay with half of you.”

She winced. “That’s fair.”

We didn’t hug goodbye. Just nodded and walked off. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t angry. Just done.

A month later, I moved to San Diego. Got a decent apartment not far from the beach. Samira ended up being stationed nearby, and we kept in touch. One day she asked if I wanted to get pho after work. That turned into weekly dinners. Then daily texts.

Eventually, she moved in.

She didn’t fill the hole Amira left. She just built something new next to it. And honestly? That felt better.

A year passed.

Then one night, out of nowhere, I got a Facebook message from Amira. No text—just a photo.

It was one of my old comics. The little drawing I made of her sitting on a porch swing, back when things felt simple.

Under it, she wrote:
“Found this cleaning out my room. Hope you’re well.”

I looked at it for a second. Smiled. Then closed the app. Didn’t reply.

Not out of spite. Just because some chapters don’t need sequels.

Looking back, I don’t regret writing that first letter. Or even falling for her again. I needed to feel something back then. I needed hope.

But what I’ve learned since?

Sometimes, people love the idea of you more than the actual you. And sometimes, they’re just lonely, trying to keep too many people warm without ever lighting a real fire.

And that’s okay. That’s human.

But you deserve someone who chooses just you—without hesitation, without backup plans.

And when you find that? Don’t look back.

If this hit home for you, give it a like or share. You never know who needs to hear it.