The Mailbox Is Full of Letters I Never Sent

The Mailbox:

I walk past the mailbox every day.

It sits there like a quiet witness.

Rusting around the edges, slightly tilted from years of storms, but always standing.

Waiting.

Just like me.

There are no envelopes inside — at least, not the physical kind.

But if paper could carry pain without ink…

If silence could seal something tighter than glue…

Then that mailbox would be overflowing.

Because for years, I’ve been writing letters I never mailed.

To people I once loved.

To people I hate now.

To people I miss but can’t face.

And to one person who will never read anything again.

Letter One: To Him

I wrote it the night he left. Not slammed-the-door kind of leaving, but quieter — the kind that makes the air feel heavier.

"I wish you’d have told me when you stopped loving me. Instead of pretending, instead of letting me rot slowly beside you."

I folded it, sealed it, but couldn’t move past the front porch.

What if he read it and felt nothing? That would’ve killed me more than his silence.

Letter Two: To My Father

"You were supposed to show me how to be strong, not how to disappear."

I found that letter in a drawer years later, yellowing.

He’d died before I could give it to him.

Cancer doesn’t wait for closure.

Neither does regret.

Letter Three: To Me

This one I never even finished.

"You’re not broken, just bruised."

I couldn’t believe it enough to keep writing.

Still can’t, some days.

But it’s the only letter I still open, still add to — hoping one day it reads like truth.

People say letters are healing.

I don’t know.

Sometimes writing them felt like peeling a scab just to see if it still hurts.

Other times, it felt like screaming into a pillow until my voice returned.

I wrote to a friend who ghosted me without reason.

"Did I say too much? Or not enough?"

To my mother, after we fought and she said, “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

"I’m older now. And I still don’t understand."

To the version of me who used to dream without fear:

"Please come back. I think I’m ready to hope again."

But none of them made it into the mailbox.

Because sending them meant finality.

It meant giving the pain a destination.

And I was too scared that it wouldn’t come back changed — or worse — that it wouldn’t come back at all.

Last week, I cleaned the kitchen drawer where I keep all the unsent letters.

They were tied with old shoelaces and frayed ribbons.

Some still smelled like the perfume I wore in college.

Some had coffee stains and smeared ink — from tears or rainy hands, I’m not sure anymore.

I almost burned them.

I stood over the sink, lighter in hand, and asked myself:

What good is a letter if no one reads it?

But before I could strike the flame, I felt it —

a strange peace in holding them.

Like they were proof I tried.

Proof I had something to say, even if I couldn’t say it out loud.

Sometimes, healing isn’t loud.

It’s not a scream, or a goodbye.

Sometimes, it’s walking past that mailbox every day,

knowing what you carry,

and learning to stand anyway.

So, no — the mailbox isn’t actually full.

But it holds the weight of everything I couldn’t say.

Of every truth I whispered to paper instead of people.

Of love, loss, guilt, growth — unsent but still alive in ink.

One day, maybe, I’ll send one.

Maybe not.

But either way, I’ve already said it.

And maybe that’s enough.