My brain is a horrible thing because the first prompt I could come up with was "you were mine." So whatever pair you want to be angsty with, go wild.

There’s postcards, scattered across the kitchen table. Dirk has a drawer full of them for special, drunken occasions such as this. They’re all different. Each hails from a different location, from the exotic wilds of India to the bleak monotony of Minnesota. England. South Africa. Albuquerque. Every one of them a now-faded square of longing in Dirk’s chest.

Dirk rereads their simple messages: “Wish you were here,” “Lovely weather!” “Brilliant views from up here,” “I miss you tonight, Strider, I never should have left.” Dirk’s favorite has a simple “Love, Jake” in a haphazard pencil scrawl, as if the green-eyed adventurer was in a hurry and the clipped words were the first thing that sprung to his mind.

There’s never a return address.