Conversations I Never Had

Conversations I Never Had

By [wiki king]

Dear Lily,

Do you remember when we buried that time capsule in the backyard? You insisted we include your sparkly hairband because “in the future, people will want to know what style means.” I put in a Pokémon card. It feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago. You moved away the summer after fifth grade. We promised we’d write letters, but I never sent mine.

I never told you I hated that you left. Or that I missed you so much it ached in my stomach. You were the first person who knew my secrets — about the ghost I thought I saw, the poems I wrote, the time I cried when I saw a dead bird on the sidewalk. I don’t have anyone like that anymore. Sometimes I think we were just two quiet kids who happened to orbit each other at the right time. But maybe, just maybe, you were my first real friend. If you’re out there, I hope you still wear sparkly things.

Dear Jason,

You said I was “too sensitive.” That I overreacted. That you were “just being honest.”

But your honesty always felt like an earthquake disguised as a whisper.

You were good with words. You always made it sound like I was the problem — that my tears were weakness, my silence was guilt, my instincts were paranoia. I believed you, for too long. I thought love meant shrinking to fit inside someone else’s version of okay.

But I see you now for what you were: a storm that never warned me before it hit. I don’t hate you anymore. I’m just tired of carrying the weight of a love that never really held me.

And Jason?

I’m not too sensitive. I’m just not numb like you.

Dear Dad,

I practiced what I would say to you the last time we crossed paths — at Aunt Mona’s funeral. You walked past me like I was invisible, and I let you.

Do you remember my eighth-grade science fair? I built that volcano by myself. Mom helped with the labels, but everything else was me. You said you’d come, but you didn’t. You said “next time,” but next time never came.

Mom cried quietly that night. I pretended not to hear. I carried that volcano home like a trophy no one cared about.

You were always good at leaving things half-done — half a parent, half a goodbye, half a man.

But writing this, I realize I don’t want an apology anymore. I just want to stop expecting one.

Dear Me (age 16),

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed with your headphones on, drowning out the world with sad music. You think this moment — this heartbreak, this exam, this fight with Mom — is going to destroy you.

It won’t.

You will grow into someone who is both softer and stronger than you imagined. You will lose people you thought you couldn’t live without. You’ll cry over things that won’t matter five years later, and laugh at things you once feared. But the thing I want you to know is this:

You were never wrong to feel everything so deeply.

Keep writing. Keep dreaming. Stop apologizing for taking up space.

Dear Me (age 40),

Are we there yet? Did we figure it all out?

I hope you learned how to say no without guilt. I hope you still read books in the bath and dance when no one’s watching. I hope you forgave Mom, even if she never said sorry.

I hope you didn’t settle.

I want to believe you’re proud of us — not because of what we achieved, but because we kept choosing growth over comfort.

And if you're reading this in the middle of a mess, remember: the mess is proof you’re still trying.

There’s a shoebox under my bed now, full of these letters. Some of them are folded neatly, others crumpled from the grip of old anger. I never sent them — maybe I never will. But they were never meant for mailboxes. They were meant for mirrors.

Each one is a conversation I never had…

but somehow, every word brings me closer to the version of myself I never let speak out loud.

And she — finally — has a voice