The Girl Who Never Answered

The first letter was written on a cold January morning, his breath fogging up the window as snow fell softly outside.

“Dear Emily,” he began, “I hope you’re happy, wherever you are.”

It had been three months since she’d left town—no goodbye, no explanation. Just silence. Adam had called, texted, even stood outside her old apartment once, but she was gone. All that remained was a mailbox with her name still printed faintly on it.

So, he wrote her a letter.

And when he was done, he sealed it, stamped it, and dropped it into the postbox at the corner of Maple and 5th.

It came back two weeks later.

“Return to Sender. Address Unknown.”

Every year after that, on her birthday, he wrote her another one.

“Dear Emily, do you still paint?”

“Dear Emily, I finally got the job we dreamed about.”

“Dear Emily, I miss your laugh. I still hear it sometimes.”

He never stopped sending them, even when friends told him to move on. They didn’t understand — writing was how he kept her alive in his world.

Year after year, the letters came back unopened, creased and stamped with that same red ink. He kept them all in a shoebox beneath his bed, tied with a pale blue ribbon — her favorite color.

On the tenth year, Adam sat by the window again. His hair had silver strands now. He didn’t know why he was still writing, only that not writing felt like losing her all over again.

He wrote slower this time, his pen trembling a little.

“Dear Emily,

I don’t even know if you’re alive anymore. But if you are… I hope you found peace. I’ve stopped waiting, but I haven’t stopped remembering. You taught me what love is. Even if you couldn’t stay.”

He sealed it with a sigh and walked to the postbox. The wind was cold, just like that first January.

Three weeks passed.

Then, one afternoon, as he sorted through bills and catalogues, he saw it — a letter.

Not one he had sent, but one addressed to him.

The handwriting was delicate. Familiar.

He tore it open, heart pounding.

Dear Adam,

You don’t know how many times I tried to write back.

But I couldn’t — not until now.

The truth is, I’ve been reading every one of your letters. My mother kept them for me. She said they were proof that someone, somewhere, still cared about me.

I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I was sick — really sick — and I didn’t want you to see me fade. I thought I’d come back when I got better. But I didn’t.

The doctors said I wouldn’t live to see my 25th birthday. That was ten years ago.

I guess they were right — part of me did die back then. The rest learned how to live quietly, one heartbeat at a time.

Your letters kept me alive in ways medicine couldn’t.

There’s one last thing I want you to know:

I never stopped loving you either.

Love always,

Emily

Adam read the letter three times before the words made sense. His hands trembled; tears blurred the ink.

He noticed a return address written in small letters at the bottom:

“Cedar Grove Hospice, Room 14.”

He dropped everything and drove there.

When he arrived, the nurse at the desk looked at him with soft, knowing eyes.

“Are you Adam?” she asked.

He nodded.

She led him to a small room filled with sunlight and the faint scent of lavender. There was a chair by the bed — empty.

On the table beside it lay a small wooden box, tied with a pale blue ribbon.

Inside were his letters.

Every single one.

And beneath them, a note in her handwriting:

“If he ever comes, tell him I did answer. Just in my own way.”

He sat there for hours, holding that box against his chest.

Outside, it began to snow — soft, quiet, and endless.

That night, for the first time in ten years, Adam wrote his final letter.

Dear Emily,

I got your message.

And I understand now.

Some goodbyes just take a little longer to arrive.

Love always,

Adam.