The Love Letter I Never Sent

I found it by accident.

Tucked behind a stack of old tax papers and dried-up pens in the back of my desk drawer. A folded sheet of faded paper, yellowing slightly at the edges, held together by time and some forgotten part of my heart.

I recognized the handwriting immediately. My own—but from another lifetime. It was dated August 15, 2015, and the first words hit like a punch to the chest:

> “Dear Maya,”

I sat down slowly, the room silent except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan. Ten years. A decade. And I never sent it.

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Then – 2015

I wrote it the night she left for Paris.

I had stood at the airport with a forced smile, pretending I was happy for her. Pretending I wasn’t drowning inside. She had always dreamed of going—of painting in Montmartre, sipping wine on cobbled streets, being free.

And I loved her too much to stop her.

But I couldn’t say everything I felt. Not then. So instead, I wrote it all down. Every truth I’d never spoken.

> “I should’ve told you earlier, but I was scared. Scared that I would make you stay, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason you clipped your wings. But Maya… I love you. Not just the kind of love you say in passing—I mean the kind that settles in your bones, the kind that makes silence with you feel more full than conversation with anyone else.”

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Now – 2025

My fingers brushed the paper like it was something sacred. My hands trembled slightly as I kept reading.

> “I love how you fall asleep mid-sentence and laugh at your own terrible puns. I love how you always cry at documentaries and how you talk to plants like they’re old friends. I love all of it.”

I chuckled softly. She really did cry over everything. Even animated movies. Especially animated movies.

I remember one night in 2014—we’d stayed up watching Up, and she cried so hard at the first 10 minutes that we had to pause the movie and go for a walk.

> “If this letter ever reaches you, I guess it means I finally found the courage to tell you. Or maybe it means I’ve gone mad. Either way, know this: if you ever find your way back, my door—and my heart—will still be open.”

But I never sent it.

After she left, life just... moved on. I buried myself in work. Dated a little. Nothing stuck. Occasionally, I’d see her posts online—smiling in front of cafés, canvases full of color, hair wild in the Parisian wind. She looked free. She looked happy.

And I told myself that was enough.

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Then – 2018

Three years after she left, she came back.

Not permanently. Just for an exhibition. I went, of course. She didn’t expect me, but when she saw me, her eyes lit up in that way they used to.

We talked. Caught up. Shared a bottle of wine like old times. I asked her if she ever missed home.

She said, “Sometimes. But I don’t think I’m built for staying.”

I nodded. I understood. I always did.

I almost gave her the letter then. I had carried it in my wallet for three years.

But again—I didn’t.

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Now – 2025

The paper felt heavier now, as if carrying all the weight of those unsaid words. I leaned back in my chair and looked at the ceiling.

What would’ve happened if I had sent it?

Would she have stayed? Or would she have resented me for making her choose?

Would we have built a life together—a small apartment filled with plants and paint-splattered mugs, laughter in the kitchen, sleepy kisses under soft lamps?

Or would we have burned out quickly, like fireworks—bright, beautiful, and gone too soon?

I don’t know.

And maybe I’ll never know.

---

That evening, I did something I hadn’t done in years—I looked her up.

Her website was still active. Her paintings had become more abstract, more colorful. There was a recent photo of her—standing beside a piece titled “What If.” She hadn’t changed much. Still wore that same crooked smile, still had that distant look in her eyes, like she was always halfway into a dream.

I hovered over the “Contact” button.

Then closed the tab.

Not because I didn’t still love her. I think I always will, in some quiet, permanent way.

But because some things are beautiful because they were never said. Some letters are meant to stay unsent—not out of fear, but out of love.

The kind of love that lets someone go and means it.

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One Final Line (the letter’s last words):

> “I don’t know if I’ll ever send this. But if I do—just know, you were my once in a lifetime. And that was enough.”

I folded the letter again, gently this time, and slid it back into the drawer.

And left the past where it belonged.