Chapter Text
It had been a rather tumultuous year, between Paris and the new job at The Mirror, but Andy was determined to get Runway and Miranda off her mind.
The lingering glances, the touches that lasted seconds too long and the damned night in Paris where she had sat with Miranda during a moment of duress and emotional toil that had ended in a clandestine kiss shared under a silver moon.
Miranda had been rather merciful as to not blacklist her and for that she was grateful. After leaving the way she did, Andy was doing much much worse than she could’ve ever imagined, sure she managed to save a little of her pride but the "What if’s” kept her wide awake, often sullen and empty.
Andy had considered reaching back out numerous times to see, just to see if Miranda had meant anything with those glances and the all too often softening in her gaze but, to be honest, Andy didn't know if that was a wise idea.
Her life currently was quite lonely, she had reached out to Nigel once or twice but only received small messages back that often left her understanding that their relationship had ended with her career at Runway. Emily was not much better, despite the attempt to mend things with the clothes.
Andy spent most days at the end drinking her way through the cheapest bottle of liquor she could find and writing letters addressed to Miranda.
They were of course never sent out and only meant as footnotes to a one sided love she had harboured in the dark, but she found comfort in expressing her emotions through these letters.
“Dear Miranda,
I could be yours, if you only would let me love you. And only if you could ever love yourself, my darling. I regret leaving the way I did but, I felt I was losing myself underneath everything that took place. I hope one day you can forgive me and maybe one day,,,maybe one day we could reconnect…
Love, A”
Andy wrote on her desk in a handwritten letter, as the same damning moon shone through the blinds of her single room apartment she had moved to after leaving Nate.
It had been her magnum opus, the one letter that she had been building up to writing this whole time and every word felt as hollow as she felt writing them.
It had taken her 4 months of drinking and writing to get to this point, writing single words and often breaking down barely a few sentences in. Andy often wondered if Miranda was ever thinking about her, the kiss that was cloaked in moonlight, the glances and comments, the departure. She doubted Miranda ever gave her the time of day in her mind anymore but secretly, and selfishly, she had hoped that maybe the candle was still lit. Maybe Miranda held the smallest, flickering ember in her palm for Andy, her Andrea, and maybe one day she could give this letter to her and mend both hearts at once.