A Letter Never Sent

Arman sat at his old wooden desk on a cold, silent evening. The soft ticking of the clock filled the room, yet he barely noticed. Tonight felt different. After so many years, he was finally writing a letter.

The letter was for Imran, his childhood best friend. The very thought of that name sent a rush of memories through him—long summer days spent fishing in the nearby river, evenings trying to catch fireflies, and late nights under the stars, sharing dreams of distant places they would explore together.

But life doesn’t always follow the paths we plan.

When Imran left for college, they’d promised to write every week. At first, they did. Each envelope carried fresh stories: jokes scribbled in the margins, reflections on new friendships, and hopes for the future. Yet slowly, the letters became fewer. Weeks passed between replies, then months. Finally, nothing. Silence settled in like an uninvited guest.

Time marched on. Arman stayed behind in the village, helping his father run their small grocery shop. He worked long hours stocking shelves and balancing accounts, but couldn’t shake a hollow echo inside whenever the postman passed by without a delivery for him. Occasionally, news of Imran came secondhand—through relatives from Dhaka or neighbors on their afternoon walk. “He’s doing well in the city,” they’d say. “Got a good job.” But none of them ever showed him a letter.

So, he stopped waiting.

Yet tonight, Arman found himself picking up a pen. His hands trembled as memories flooded back—the warmth of Imran’s laughter, the clatter of cricket bats on wet grass during a rainy match, the promise they had both whispered under a moonlit sky. He thought: maybe it was time to bridge the years of silence.

He began to write:

Dear Imran,

My friend, it’s been a long time. I wonder if this letter will ever find you. Funny how life can stretch years into lonely stretches, yet some memories stay sharp as if no time has passed at all. I didn’t stay behind out of fear—life simply had other plans for me. There were days I missed you so much it hurt, and nights I waited by the window for a letter that never came.

His pen paused. He stared at the rain‑streaked window for a moment, recalling songbirds on summer mornings and kite strings dancing in the wind. Then he wrote on, confessing his loneliness, his regrets, and the happiness he still felt remembering their youth.

When at last the letter was done, Arman folded it carefully and slipped it into an envelope, addressing it in his neatest handwriting. But instead of walking to the post box, he placed it back on the desk. It sat there for days, alongside an untouched ink bottle.

Each morning, he looked at it and asked himself: “What if Imran has moved? What if he never replies? What if he’s forgotten me completely?” The questions weighed him down like stones in his pocket.

Then one rainy afternoon, on his way to the tea shop, Arman saw a familiar figure through the misted glass. A man sat alone at a corner table, cradling a steaming cup. The shape was different—wider shoulders, a few more lines around the eyes—but the smile was unmistakable.

“Imran?” Arman’s voice cracked.

The man looked up, surprise and relief washing across his face. For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke—years of distance hanging between them like a fragile thread. Then Imran stood, eyes glistening, and said simply,

“Arman... I was just about to find you.”

They moved to sit together by the window. Rain pattered gently on the glass as they shared stories of the years gone by—Imran’s adventures in the city, Arman’s life in the village, both discovering how much can change and yet how little some bonds truly fade.

That evening, they sat once more at the old desk. The letter lay unread between them, its seal still unbroken. Neither reached for it. The words had found their way out in that moment, in the warmth of two friends reunited.

After Imran left that night, Arman gently lifted the envelope, held it close, and tucked it into a small wooden drawer—an artifact of a past no longer needed but never forgotten. He imagined days ahead filled with new letters, phone calls, and even visits. The silence had finally been broken.

Sometimes the words we never send find their way out—not through ink on paper, but in the moments we share.