He misses her, and every time she crosses his mind he rips out a piece of paper from his (third) note book and writes her a letter. At times he gets carried away reminiscing the little things about her like how she complains about campus being too far away every evening she comes home yet refuses to move whenever he tells her he found a nice apartment with a cheap rent just because she likes the city view from the balcony and the small bakery across the street. He recalls how she would wear the same shirt twice in a week when she thinks she didn’t speak to any particular friend that day and would tell him she is being environmental friendly when in fact she just hates doing laundry. He chuckles at the memory of her dropping her phone in class, causing a loud crash and everyone to turn their heads at her direction. He was the one who picked it up and returned it to her with a stifled laugh.

He misses her, so he rips out another page from his book and sits at his desk with a pen in his hand.

How have you been? I―

He stops writing after just five words, realizing that he doesn’t actually know what else to write. He has been writing her letters, sometimes short notes, every single day for the past few months. There are days when he writes more than once, especially on the days when his heart swells up at the thoughts of her and the lingering memory of her in every corner of the house suffocates him. Occasionally he would question himself why he hasn’t moved away yet but then he would look out from the balcony and fall in love with the scenery (her) all over again.

With a sigh, he adds ‘miss you’ and folds the paper before pulling out a shoe box from beneath the bed. There are more than a hundred letters inside the box, each varies in terms of length but they all mean the same. He slips the new letter in and stares at the pile. Maybe sooner or later he needs to send all these letters, but then again he has no idea how exactly he can post them, or if they would actually reach her in heaven.