The Letters You Never Read: A Symphony of Silent Love

I met you on a Tuesday. There was nothing extraordinary about that day—the sky wasn’t painted in gold, and the wind didn’t carry any promise. But somehow, in the stillness of that ordinary moment, something shifted within me. I remember your laughter—warm, careless, full of life. It echoed in a place I didn’t know existed inside me. That night, without knowing why, I picked up a pen and wrote you a letter. It was short, clumsy, and filled with emotions I didn’t yet understand. I didn’t send it. I folded it neatly and tucked it into an empty drawer. It said, “There’s something about you that makes the silence in me sing.”

You never knew, but I fell in love with you quietly. Not in the firework way that burns bright and fast, but like the slow, steady blooming of a flower in the dark—silent, patient, unseen. You talked to me about everything. I was your confidant, your secret-keeper. You spoke of the girls you liked, the ones who made your heart race, and the ones who never looked back. You shared your dreams with me while I buried mine. Every time you smiled about someone else, I smiled too—but mine came with an ache, a deep and aching loneliness that I never let you see. I became the listener, the silent supporter, the one always there—but never the one you chose.

And yet, I kept writing. Letter after letter, some filled with joy for your joys, others drenched in tears I refused to shed in front of you. One of them said, “I hope she sees the way your eyes light up when you talk about the things you love. I hope she realizes how lucky she is.” But she never did. None of them did. They came and went, leaving pieces of you behind. And I stayed. Always.

There was one night I’ll never forget. You called me, your voice trembling. She had left. Another heartbreak. You said, “Why does no one ever stay?” And I almost said it then. I almost told you, “I did. I always have.” But I didn’t. Instead, I listened, my hand clutching the phone while my heart quietly shattered again. That night, I wrote, “If only you knew how gently I would’ve held you. How completely I would’ve stayed.”

There were moments—just tiny, fragile ones—when I thought you felt it too. A look that lingered too long, a goodbye that didn’t come easily, a silence filled with something unsaid. For a second, I’d believe. But belief is dangerous when you love someone who doesn’t love you back. And so I stayed quiet. I stayed your safe place, your constant, your friend. And I kept writing.

Years passed. Seasons changed. Life moved on. But I didn’t. You were still the quiet rhythm of every day. I loved you with a patience I never knew I had. I celebrated your happiness even when it tore me apart. You never saw the love behind my eyes. And maybe you never will.

Now, you’re getting married. To someone kind. Someone who makes you laugh. And I will sit in the back row, dressed in a smile stitched from the threads of all the times I wanted to tell you the truth. I will watch you promise forever to someone else, knowing I had already given my forever to you a long time ago. When I get home, I will open the drawer where all those letters still live—each one a piece of me you never saw. I will read them one last time, then let them burn. Because this love, though silent, deserves an ending.

You’ll never read those letters. You’ll never know the words I wrote for you in the quiet hours of the night. But maybe, someday—when life is quieter and memories come knocking—you’ll wonder, “Did someone, once, love me like that?” And I hope, with all the softness left in me, that the universe will answer, “Yes. More than you’ll ever know.

About Writer : Farhad khan has done his graduation in Psychology and is currently serving as a police officer.