Please note: this piece contains content that some readers may find upsetting.
It all began in the summer of 2004. My company had sent me and another delegate to attend a two-day conference in Zurich. Our return flights were on different days—his was a day earlier, and mine was 19 hours later.
It was my first time travelling abroad, and I was already anxious. When I learned about the return plan, I took a deep breath and tried to stay composed. But things took a turn at the airport: my flight was cancelled, and the next one was 16 hours later.
Though I was 23, I’d lived a fairly sheltered life. With my senior colleague already gone and no idea how to navigate an international airport, I felt overwhelmed. I sat on a bench, clutching my handbag, trying not to cry. My international SIM had stopped working—it was 2004, and using foreign SIMs wasn’t exactly smooth back then.
That’s when I noticed someone approaching.
‘Hi, need help?’ a stranger asked in broken English.
Tears welled up as I looked up to see a kind-faced young woman gazing at me. I told her what had happened.
She sat beside me and said, ‘I know this is a difficult situation, and you have every right to cry—but why not turn it into a good experience? Come, let’s fix your problem.’
With that, she pulled me up and led me to the ticket counter. In broken English, she firmly enquired about my flight. Within minutes, she not only sorted out the details and got me my boarding pass in advance but also managed to secure a free lounge pass, still speaking in fragmented but confident English. I was amazed by her boldness and composure.
Once we settled in the lounge, she introduced herself as Luna, from Barcelona, Spain. She loved to solo travel to budget-friendly destinations—Zurich was her third. She worked as a front desk executive and bartended on weekends. I shared a brief intro, too. Unable to pronounce my name, she affectionately called me Bonita.
With no common language beyond scattered English and excessive hand gestures, we wandered around the airport countless times for five unforgettable hours until it was time for her flight. She was a spirited and talkative girl with a hidden talent for empathy. Before leaving, she pulled out a lavender-coloured notepad, scribbled her home address on the first page, and added a note:
"If you remember this day even once a year, write to me."
The Letters Begin
I kept my promise.
My first letter was simple—a thank you, a bit of office gossip, some weather talk, and a small, dried flower from my garden.
Luna replied two months later. Like her, her letter was full of life—stories about her extended family, the scent of spring in the air, a new dress, and a lost shoe. It was filled with spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, but it carried a charm that made me smile the entire time I read it.
That was the beginning of a friendship that lasted for years.
We never met again, never spoke on the phone, never emailed. We chose letters—slow, thoughtful, full of everyday stories—always written on lavender letter pads, something Luna insisted on.
Over time, our letters came regularly—four times a year, sometimes more.
In one, Luna dreamt of opening a flower shop filled with every colour and fragrance. In another, she shared how a cousin had landed a great job thanks to her advanced education—now, Luna wanted to return to her studies too.
Family, Work, and Life Moving On
Over time, life changed around us. I got married, had kids, and juggled work, while Luna remained single, pursued her education, and eventually landed a high-paying job.
My letters were filled with everyday things—pollution, fresh bread, school updates, and office monotony. Her letters painted a vibrant picture of solo trips, a carefree spirit, and her beloved cat.
Once, I mentioned my long-held dream of doing a PhD, but said time and money didn’t allow it. Her reply was brief but firm: ‘You’ve got one life. Chase your dreams.’ The rest of the letter was about a charming doctor she seemed smitten with. I was happy for her.
Then, no reply to my next letter. It was unlike her, but I assumed she was caught up in a new romance.
Eventually, the letters resumed—but the doctor was never mentioned again.
As my life grew busier, I struggled to keep up with letter-writing, though I still managed one for every two of hers.
Then, in June 2016, her letters stopped completely. I had no phone number or email to reach her. I waited, worried.
In February 2018, a parcel arrived with international postage. Inside was a beautiful diary, a pen, and a letter from Luna’s sister, along with a generous cheque.
Luna had been diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy. Too weak to write, she had asked her sister to send the gift. On the first page of the diary, in Luna’s handwriting, were the words:
‘You’ve got one life. Don’t just chase your dreams—grab hold of them. Apply for that PhD. Here’s my little contribution.’
That day, I cried like a child.
I later got her phone number and email from her sister and stayed in touch until her final days. In 2020, she contracted COVID, and her frail body couldn’t survive the blow.
The Final Letter
A week after her passing, I received an email with an attachment—a photo she had taken of us at the airport years ago, both laughing uncontrollably. Below it, in her handwriting, were the words:
‘Always remember—you can laugh like this.’
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