One year

[renrenren3]

He doesn't want her to leave, but she's made up her mind. One year, he keeps repeating himself, just one year. It's not that long. She promises that she'll write as often as she can. He kisses her goodbye at the train station and she starts to say something, but her words are covered by the whistle of the train.

The first letter arrives on day three. She penned it on the train and posted it in a hurry when she arrived at her destination, the writing is a bit irregular and shows when the train hit a bump in the tracks. He reads it and pretends that she's on the train with her, listening to everyone's chatter and watching the familiar countriside fade into something unknown. The letter says the same things that they'd been telling each other at the station and in the past few weeks: she misses him and she will count the days. One year, he tells himself, and he watches the calendar.

At first she writes every week, telling him about base camp and the people that she met there. Her words paints a vivid picture of what her life is like, and he keeps pretending that he's there with her. It makes his life a little less lonely. His own answers are shorter and much more boring: he's still working the same nine to five job and he still hangs out with the same old friends.

On day thirty-two she moves south and her letters start being less frequent. They're close to the enemy lines, she tells him. There's not many details any more because correspondence is heavily monitored. Instead she asks him for news of home. He's afraid that his letters will bore her, he doesn't have much to say, but she keeps writing back.

On day fifty-one, it's her birthday. He sends her a birthday card and a photo of himself, waving hi from his front porch. He draws a little speech bubble saying 'I miss you', and then feels silly, but mails it anyway. He gets the reply on day sixty-seven: she tells him that she propped the photo on a rock next to the road and they had dinner together. He smiles when he reads that and asks her if they had fun together. They had a lot of fun, says her next letter, on day seventy-six. Though his conversation was a bit dull.

The letters slow down even more. Some go missing entirely, so he starts writing every week, hoping that at least some of those letters will reach their destination. Her own letters don't fare any better. Sometimes he gets no letters at all for weeks, then two letters at once.

On day one hundred and twelve he gets a letter in which she tells him that everybody is fine and apologizes if she worried him with her earlier note. He has no idea of what she's talking about, something must have got lost in the mail again, but if he writes asking for more details she probably won't be able to answer.

Instead he tells her about how one of their friends is moving, and about a really good book that he's just finished reading. She asks to set the book aside for her, that she wants to borrow it when she gets home. It's day one hundred and twenty-nine, and it's the first time that she's mentioned coming home. One year, he tells himself.

There's a long, long period without any letters. She's warned him that this might happen, but he's still worried sick and can't sleep at night. He's got to relay on the newspapers for news as to how the war is going, though he doesn't really trust that they know what's really going on, or that they're even telling the truth.

Her next letter, when it comes, is the shortest yet. I miss you, she tells him, and it takes an effort not to send back just two words. Me too, he thinks. Me too. Instead he watches the calendar, day one hundred and sixty-six, and they're over halfway through.

I miss you too, he writes, and he tells her about home and about their friends but mostly about himself and how much he misses her. He's never said some of those things to her, and now he wishes desperately that he had. I know, she replies, and it's a constant back and forth of 'me too' and 'me too'.

On day two-hundred and nineteen he tells her that he wanted to propose, right before she left. He wanted to but he never found the courage because he wasn't sure that she wanted to get married at all, because she always said that she didn't want to feel tied down.

It seems to take forever to get her answer back. I never wanted to get married, she writes, but I think maybe, maybe I'd like to get married to you. It's day two hundred and forty. He looks at the calendar, then reads her letter again. The next day he goes shopping for a ring.

She dies on day three hundred and sixty-three.