Love Letter Never Sent

Love Letter Never Sent

I was cleaning out my old desk when I found it—an envelope tucked between yellowing notebooks and forgotten receipts. The paper had aged, edges curled, but the handwriting on the front was unmistakable.

It was mine.

And it was addressed to Emily Carter.

My hands froze. Emily. Ten years ago, she had been everything. My best friend, my secret crush, the person who made college hallways feel less lonely. I had written her this letter in our final semester, intending to slip it into her dorm mailbox before graduation.

But I never did.

Instead, I carried the letter with me, buried it under textbooks, convinced myself it was safer that way. After graduation, she moved to another state. We lost touch. And life… went on.

Until now.

I sat down slowly, the weight of ten years pressing against my chest. My fingers trembled as I opened the envelope.

The letter was handwritten, messy and uneven—the kind of raw honesty you can’t polish.

It began simply:

Dear Emily,

I don’t know how to say this, so I’m writing instead. Maybe this will never reach you. Maybe I’ll chicken out, like I usually do. But I need you to know…

I couldn’t stop reading.

I had poured everything into those pages: how her laughter made every day brighter, how her kindness cut through my darkest moods, how I wanted to hold her hand when she wasn’t looking.

And then the line that twisted my stomach:

If you feel the same, maybe we can start something real. If not, I’ll still be grateful to have known you. But I can’t leave without telling you what’s been in my heart.

The words hit me harder than I expected. Ten years later, I could still feel the ache of what might have been.

For a long time, I just sat there, letter spread across my lap, the silence of my apartment heavier than ever.

What if she had felt the same?

What if sending this letter had changed everything?

Would we be married now? Would we have kids, a house, a shared life instead of memories scattered in old photos?

The questions stung. But the truth was, I’d never know.

That night, curiosity won. I searched her name online. After a few clicks, I found her profile—older, but still her. Same warm smile, same spark in her eyes.

She lived two cities away. Married. Two kids.

A happy life.

I should have closed the browser then, but I didn’t. I stared at her photos for a long time, imagining where I might have fit into the picture.

The letter felt heavier in my hands now, not with regret, but with something harder to define.

The next morning, I walked to the riverbank near my apartment. The sun was rising, painting the sky pink and gold. I unfolded the letter one last time, letting my eyes trace every word I had written.

I realized something.

That letter wasn’t just about Emily. It was about me—the version of myself that had been too afraid to speak, too scared to risk rejection.

I had carried the weight of silence for ten years.

And maybe it was time to let it go.

I set the letter gently on the water. The current pulled it away, the ink blurring as it floated downstream. I stood there until it disappeared completely.

Emily would never read those words. But I had. And somehow, that was enough.

Sometimes, love isn’t about endings or beginnings. Sometimes, it’s about the courage we find in the words we never sent.

And as I walked back home, the world felt a little lighter.

© 2025 by [Talha Maroof]