The Letters She Never Read

The Letters She Never Read

by (Mukhlis)

He wrote her letters.

One every week, without fail.

From rain-soaked cities and quiet corners of the world, Ayaan wrote to Elina with the kind of love people read about in novels but rarely find in real life.

They had met during university—two people orbiting different worlds but drawn together by silence. She was the girl who sat under trees, writing poetry in the margins of textbooks. He was the boy behind a vintage camera, capturing stories no one else noticed.

They fell in love not like fire, but like dawn—soft, slow, and inevitable.

They promised each other everything.

Then life stepped in.

After graduation, Elina received an internship offer in Paris—her dream since she was thirteen. Ayaan stayed back to support his father’s failing business in their small hometown. Neither blamed the other.

“I’ll write to you,” he said.

“I’ll wait,” she replied.

And for a while, they meant it.

Ayaan kept his promise.

Every Sunday evening, he wrote her a letter. Not emails. Not texts.

Real letters. Ink on paper. Folded carefully. Stamped with longing.

He wrote about his days—the broken coffee machine at the shop, the stray cat that kept returning, how he saw her favorite yellow tulips bloom too early that year.

He told her about the town, his family, the smell of rain, and the ache in his chest that only grew.

But Elina slowly stopped replying.

At first, her letters came every month. Then once every few. Then none.

Ayaan never stopped.

He believed in love like gravity. Silent. Unseen. Unshakeable.

He never told anyone he was still writing to her.

Every week, after closing the shop, he’d return to his small room above the bakery, sit at his desk by the window, and pour his heart onto the page.

He never questioned whether she read them.

Writing was enough.

Loving her was enough.

Until one winter morning, Ayaan didn’t wake up.

His mother found him in his bed, peaceful, his hands folded, and one final letter resting on his chest—addressed to Elina.

He was 29.

The news of his passing spread slowly through the town. But the letters?

No one knew about them.

Until his younger sister, Samina, was clearing out his room.

She found a wooden box under his bed. Inside were 217 sealed letters—all addressed to the same girl.

Each dated. Each untouched by the world.

Samina didn’t know who Elina was.

But Ayaan had once told her, “If anything happens to me, make sure she knows I never stopped writing.”

So she did.

In a quiet apartment in Montmartre, Elina opened her mailbox one gray morning and found the first letter.

Her breath caught.

His handwriting.

Her name.

The date—three weeks ago.

She dropped her groceries, clutched the envelope, and closed her door with shaking hands.

The letter read:

“Dear Elina,

I walked past the bookstore today. The owner still asks about you.

I told him you were in Paris chasing your dreams.

I didn’t tell him you left me behind in them.”

She cried for hours.

Then the next week, another arrived. And the next.

Each letter carried pieces of a man who had loved her quietly and completely.

“I saw a girl in a red scarf. I followed her for two blocks. It wasn’t you. But my heart didn’t know that.”

“I wonder if you still drink your tea with too much sugar. I wonder if you ever think of me.”

“I’m not angry. I just miss you.”

She read every single one.

Sometimes once. Sometimes twice.

Often aloud — as if he could hear her, somewhere.

When the last letter came, it read:

“Dear Elina,

If this is the final one, just know —

I loved you enough for both of us.

Even in silence, I never stopped waiting.

And if this world gives me another life,

I’ll find you sooner. And I’ll write again.”

Elina placed the box of letters beside her bed.

Each night, she would light a candle, pick a letter, and read it like a prayer.

She never replied.

What could she possibly say to someone who had loved her beyond time?

But perhaps… somewhere, he knew.