The Letter He’ll Never Read

Dear Aamir,

You’ll never read this. I won’t send it. I don’t even know where you live anymore. Maybe halfway across the world, maybe just a few blocks away. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Distance stopped being about miles a long time ago. It became something heavier — a space between us filled with silence and unanswered questions.

It’s funny. I used to think words could fix things. That if I said the right ones, if I poured my heart out just perfectly, you’d understand. That love was just a matter of explaining your heart properly, like a puzzle waiting for the last piece to fall into place. But I learned — some silences can’t be translated. Some feelings get lost before they even reach the air.

I met you when I was seventeen. You had this way of laughing that made people turn around, like the world paused just to hear it. It wasn’t loud or obnoxious, but genuine and warm, the kind of laugh that made you feel safe without even knowing why. You were kind to everyone, even when you were tired or distracted. I thought that was rare. I still do.

We were never “official.” Not in the way people post about on social media or write songs for. We didn’t have grand declarations or Instagram anniversaries. But we were something. Real, fragile, and messy. You held my hand like it was breakable, like you were trying to keep me safe. You looked at me like I made sense — even on the days I didn’t. And I loved you. God, I loved you so quietly it almost didn’t feel real. Like breathing in a dream you’re afraid to wake up from.

You never said it back. Not directly. Not the three words I wanted so badly to hear.

But your actions spoke. You waited for me at the bus stop every morning, even when the rain soaked through your jacket and chilled your skin. You lent me your hoodie without me even asking, and I wrapped myself in it like a shield. You remembered my favorite things — the way I liked my tea with extra sugar, how I always sat near the window because I loved to watch the world go by, how I feared thunderstorms but pretended I didn’t because I didn’t want to seem scared. You knew all of that. And still, you left.

I don’t blame you. Not anymore.

You had your own storm raging inside you. One I didn’t understand back then. You were carrying grief, guilt, pressure — heavy things that I couldn’t see because I was too busy dreaming, too busy writing our future in my head. The day you walked away, you didn’t say goodbye. Not a word. You just vanished like a ghost in the mist. And that silence — that absence — was worse than any goodbye I could have imagined.

I carried that silence for years. It wrapped around me like a cold blanket in the night. I tried to write this letter a hundred times. On paper, in my notes app, in my head at 3 a.m. Every version sounded wrong. Too angry. Too sad. Too hopeful. Not honest enough.

Until now.

Because now, I don’t need closure from you.

I found it in other places — in therapy sessions where I finally learned to listen to myself, in friendships that didn’t ask me to shrink or apologize for taking up space, in strangers who smiled at me for no reason and made me believe in kindness again. I found it in bookstores, in the quiet pages of novels where I lost and found myself. I found it in long walks where the wind wiped away the heaviness from my chest. And, most importantly, I found it in my own reflection — that girl who stopped looking like something broken and started looking like someone who might heal.

I found it in me.

But I still wanted to say thank you. Thank you for being my first almost. For teaching me how love feels when it’s soft and confusing and imperfect. For showing me that sometimes, even beautiful things don’t stay. That sometimes love doesn’t come with guarantees or neat endings.

And I forgive you. Not because you apologized — you never did — but because I need the space where the bitterness used to live. I forgive myself, too. For holding on too long. For building stories in my head that didn’t come true. For waiting for a message that never came. I forgive the girl who loved too quietly and believed too loudly.

If you ever think of me, I hope it’s warm.

I hope you remember the way we used to sit in the library, whispering stories to each other when we thought no one was listening. I hope you remember how I laughed too loudly at your jokes, and how you smiled like you were happy just to see me smile back. I hope you remember that I loved you — not perfectly, but honestly, with everything I had.

And if this letter ever finds you, by accident or fate, I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re whole.

You don’t owe me a reply. You never did.

But I owed myself these words.

Goodbye,

—The girl who once dreamed in your name