The Letters I Never Sent

I have a box of letters under my bed. I’ve written them over years — to people I’ve lost, people I’ve loved, people I was too afraid to speak to. None of them have ever been sent.

One rainy afternoon, I pulled out a letter to my best friend from middle school. We’d drifted apart, not because of anything dramatic, but because life quietly pushed us in different directions. I reread the words: “I miss our ridiculous inside jokes. I hope you’re happy. I hope you remember me sometimes.”

The rain tapped against the window like applause. I realized something: writing these letters wasn’t about sending them. It was about acknowledgment. About confronting my own feelings, admitting my regrets, and allowing myself to feel them fully.

I started writing more frequently, letters to no one in particular. Sometimes I burned them afterward. Sometimes I kept them in the box. Each letter was a small act of bravery — a confession, a memory, a truth I was finally ready to face.

One day, I found myself laughing at a letter to my future self. I wrote about the things I wanted to accomplish, the person I wanted to be. I didn’t know if I’d ever read it again, but writing it made me feel… present, alive, intentional.

I realized then that life is a series of letters — not all meant to be sent, but all meant to be felt. And sometimes, the only person who needs to read them is you.