The Letters I Never Sent

Some love stories begin with a spark.

Ours began with the sound of a torn page.

She sat on the steps of an old bookstore,

her fingers gently folding the corner of Wuthering Heights as she read.

The afternoon sun filtered through the vines,

and I stood there, frozen by something I couldn’t explain.

Her name was Lina.

It wasn’t love at first sight.

It was something softer—like a memory I hadn't lived yet.

We talked about books, the kind of love that destroys you,

and how some people are not made for small lives.

Lina said she wanted to leave a mark on the world.

I said I just wanted to find someone who would understand my silence.

“Then we are both fools,” she smiled,

“but at least we’ll be fools together.”

What followed wasn’t dramatic.

No grand gestures. No public confessions.

Just long walks, late-night chai,

notes scribbled in the margins of borrowed novels.

We lived in between moments.

The way only two people can who are quietly, completely falling in love.

She collected photographs.

I collected her laughter.

She said love should never be loud,

but deep—like a river, moving even when you can’t see it.

Then came the offer.

Paris.

A prestigious photography fellowship. Two years. Full-time. No visitors.

“I have to go,” she said.

“I owe it to the girl I was before I met you.”

I understood.

Of course I did.

But understanding doesn’t stop the ache.

We didn’t say goodbye.

Instead, I handed her a blank envelope and said:

“Open this when you miss me, but don’t want to.”

She took it without asking what was inside.

Because she already knew—

it wasn’t a letter.

It was a promise I didn’t know how to make.

And then she was gone.

At first, I pretended it was temporary.

That I would wake up and find her waiting at the bookshop.

That she’d call and tell me Paris was beautiful but incomplete without me.

But days passed.

Then months.

And silence grew like ivy around my chest.

I started writing her letters.

At first, once a week.

Then daily.

By the third month, I had written forty-seven.

Some were angry.

Some were hopeful.

One was just a drawing of the scarf she left behind.

I never sent any of them.

I kept them in a wooden box under my bed,

sealed with the dust of hesitation and fear.

A year went by.

Seasons changed, but the ache didn’t.

Then, one morning—

as spring tried to crawl back into the city—

I came home to find her standing at my door.

Rain in her hair.

The blank envelope in her hand.

“I opened it,” she whispered.

“It was empty.”

I nodded.

“So was I,” I replied.

She stepped forward.

No drama. No tears.

Just the space between us collapsing.

We didn’t talk about Paris.

Or why she didn’t write.

Or why I never sent the letters.

We simply sat down, side by side,

and let the silence say everything.

We began again.

Not like new lovers—

but like survivors of a storm that didn’t wash them away.

She brought her camera back to life.

I began to write again.

We learned to share space again—books, spoons, pillows, Sunday mornings.

Now, when she leaves notes, they’re not goodbye.

They’re “I bought mangoes”, or “The moon is beautiful tonight.”

I still write her letters.

Not because she’s gone—

but because she’s here.

I hide them in her coat pocket,

between pages of the books she rereads,

under her pillow, where her dreams belong.

And sometimes, she writes back.

On receipts. On teabags.

Once on the palm of my hand, just before sleep.

People ask how we lasted.

I tell them:

We didn’t.

We paused. We unraveled.

We left the page half-written.

And then, when the time was right,

we picked up the pen again—together.

Love, I’ve learned, is not about perfection.

It’s about presence.

About showing up—again and again—

even if the only thing you carry is an empty envelope

and the hope that someone is still waiting on the other side.

Some letters are never sent.

But their words still arrive—

softly, gently,

in the way someone looks at you when you forget how to speak.

And sometimes,

just sometimes,

that’s enough.