Every December, when the house dimmed by 5 p.m. and the old string lights blinked just like they used to, thoughts of Sue crept into my mind — not on purpose, but inevitably.
I’m Mark, now 59. In my 20s, I lost the woman I thought I’d grow old with. It wasn’t drama or dying love — life got loud and complicated.
Sue was steady, quiet-strong — the kind of person who made you feel seen. We met in college when she dropped her pen and I picked it up. We were inseparable — just right.
After graduation, I left to care for my ailing dad. Sue got her dream job. We promised temporary separation, wrote letters, made weekend drives, and believed love would be enough — until silence replaced her replies. No fight, no goodbye. Just gone. I wrote a last letter, called her parents, and believed her father’d delivered it. Nothing came back.
Years passed. I moved on, married Heather, had two kids, built a content life. We eventually divorced — amicably. But Sue never left my mind, especially at Christmas.
Last year, in the attic, I found a faded envelope with Sue’s handwriting dated December 1991. Inside was a letter I’d never seen — she never got my final note because her parents hid it. She’d thought I walked away. My heart broke all over again.
I searched her online and found her — smiling, older but unmistakably her. I sent a friend request, it was accepted, and we messaged. She said we needed to meet.
We met at a café halfway. We talked about lost years, marriages, kids. She’d married, divorced, had a daughter. I shared my life too. We laughed over misconceptions and old wounds. There was no anger — just the truth finally out.
Christmas Eve, she invited me to her house. That reconnection grew into Saturday morning hikes, shared coffee, honest conversations about our past and future.
This spring, we’re getting married — small, with family. She’ll wear blue. I’ll wear gray.
Because life doesn’t erase what’s meant to be — it just waits until we’re ready.