I wrote him a letter every day he was deployed. He came home with 274 envelopes. All unopened.
She wrote every day for nine months. He saved every letter sealed. He wanted to open them together.
He shipped out on a Monday.
I wrote the first letter that night.
Nothing dramatic. Just: the house is quiet without you.
I mailed it the next morning.
Then I wrote another.
And another.
By week three it was a habit.
Monday: what happened at work.
Wednesday: what the dog did.
Friday: what I wished I could say to his face.
The Friday letters were the hardest.
I wrote things I'd never say on the phone.
About missing his hands.
About sleeping diagonal because the bed felt too wide.
About the way Tuesday nights felt like Sundays now.
He never wrote back much.
Short emails. One line. Miss you. Busy. Safe.
But I kept writing.
274 letters over nine months.
I didn't know he was saving every one.
Sealed. Stacked. Unopened. He was keeping them for a reason I wouldn't understand until he walked through the door.