Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me.

All characters belong to Himaruya Hidekaz

It was a simple goodbye; well, it hadn't even been that much. One day, he just stopped responding to the letters that were sent to him. At first, the letters were exchanged bi-weekly, and then they slowed down to monthly. In the end, he couldn't be sure of when the next letter would show. Eventually, the last letter read cold to him. That, plus the life he had been leading at the time, threw him into a small bout of what seemed to be depression and he started to keep to himself. He wouldn't even respond to those around him.

But those letters, the letters from his once dearest friend and first love towards one of the same gender, were the most significant to him. They had made him happy beyond his own belief; they had caused him heartbreak that he believed never to be able to fix; he had fallen in love with the person he spoke to through the written word.

His love was not based on physical attraction. He hadn't even wanted anything physical with the other man, and that is why he never confessed. He couldn't declare love that didn't seem like love at all. As the time had passed, though, he could imagine kissing the other's lips and light actions like holding hands, but never did his imagination run wilder than that.

Still, he never confessed and would not now for reasons piled up high in his heart. The letters from Arthur became cold, colder still until he had to tell himself that it was fine. The English were never so affectionate to begin with. There were still friends.

Well, to some extent.

Little by little, he lost himself to the despair. Bit by bit, he stopped eating in favor of sleep, sleep that took the reality of losing his most important person to people that Arthur were to love more than this blonde friend whom he knew only through paper and ink.

The blonde grew weak; he became ill.

He once mentioned his illness to the Brit, only to receive a letter that spoke of another man that was also ill, and, oh, how worried Arthur was for that other man. "What about me" The heartbroken man whispered to the empty room as the letter dropped from his trembling hand. "Am I really no longer your friend as well?"

Nights later, he resolved to continue talking to his other friends. Friends whom he knew cared for him. "Oh Arthur," the lonely male whispers into the dark before closing his eyes to rest and will his dreams to stray away from the Briton, "I love you; I'm sorry."

Weeks passed before he received another letter from the Englishman. The content almost gave him hope, almost made him hold on to his love even longer. Except, he was no longer trying to blind himself from the detachment Arthur had written to him with.

"I'm sorry." He whispered as- along with all the other letters had had kept-he burned his beloved's words. He watched the fire lick at the paper, turning it to ash which once it should have started from; he repeated his apology to the empty air around him, wishing the other could know how miserable he felt. "I'm sorry I love you."

Never did he respond to Arthur's last letter for it had left no room for a response. There was nothing else to say, nothing but a confession and he wouldn't give the Briton such an important revelation if they weren't even talking. He didn't care though; he found his thoughts containing Arthur lessening. Depression gone and new people to talk to, the fair-haired man was leaving his sad existence and heartbreak behind.

Months later, on a beautiful summer day where he was returning from a daily walk, a letter awaited him.

The letter read as if Arthur had wanted to reconnect with him. The feeling of happiness swelled in his heart but not one trace of hope appeared along with it. He had realised that this new Arthur, one that barely spoke to him and showed absolutely no affection towards him, had to be given a chance at friendship.

But first, this Arthur had to realize what the old Arthur had managed to steal; his heart. So the blonde, blue-eyed Frenchman grabs a pen as he sits down at his desk and elegantly writes his letter to the Englishman. I t would be the shortest letter of his life; one that didn't even have a greeting but held important words that could bring back a friendship or forever push it away.

"I loved you."

AN: At one point in the past few months, I would have said this was a confession fic. It ended differently. With no happy note at the end.
Now, this is a mere goodbye. As a writer, I couldn't help but put my feelings into words.

May you be happy.

Thanks for reading!