The Letter I Never Sent

It started with a drawer I hadn’t opened in years.

I was cleaning my childhood room during a weekend visit to my parents’ home when I found it. Tucked under old school books and dusty notebooks, I saw an envelope addressed in my own handwriting — but never mailed.

It was a letter I wrote during one of the hardest periods of my life — a letter meant for someone who broke my heart.

But I never sent it.

And now, years later, I sat cross-legged on my old carpet, holding that fragile piece of paper, reading words I had forgotten I’d written.


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The Letter Said:

> "I don’t hate you. I just hurt.
You left without a reason, and I tried to fill in the blanks with blame.
I was angry with you, but mostly, I was angry with myself for trusting so easily.
I wanted answers, but now I realize silence was the answer."



As I read it, I felt no pain — only peace.

Because I had healed.


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Why I Wrote the Letter:

Back then, I didn’t know what else to do. Speaking to someone about it felt shameful. So I did what I could: I wrote.

Writing helped me talk to Allah when I didn’t know how to say it aloud. I cried through paragraphs. I poured my sorrow onto the page. But I never posted it. Something inside told me: Some words are meant to be between you and your Lord.

Now I know that was the best decision I ever made.


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A Silent Kind of Strength:

Islam teaches us about sabr (patience) — but sabr isn’t weakness. It’s the quiet choice to keep going when your heart is heavy. It’s deleting the message instead of sending it in anger. It’s saying “Ya Allah” instead of “Why me?”

That letter taught me that healing isn’t found in revenge, or even in confrontation. Sometimes, it’s found in restraint. In trusting Allah’s plan over our emotions.

> “And whoever relies upon Allah – then He is sufficient for him.” (Qur’an 65:3)




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What I Would Say to That Person Today:

Nothing.

I don’t need to. Not out of pride, but peace. They were a chapter — not my ending. I’m no longer the person who wrote that letter. I’ve grown. Spiritually. Emotionally. Mentally.

I’ve learned to forgive, not because they asked, but because I wanted to move on. Holding on to pain only weighed me down in prayers. And I needed my hands free to make du'a — not clench them in anger.


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This Story Isn’t Just Mine:

So many people walk through life carrying unsent letters in their hearts. Words they wish they could say. Apologies they long to hear. Closures they’ll never get.

But maybe… that’s okay.

Because in Islam, closure doesn’t always come from the dunya. It comes from tawakkul (trust in Allah), from istighfar (seeking forgiveness), from the silent peace after sujood.


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A Message to You, Dear Reader:

If you’re carrying an unsent letter, a broken heart, or a story that never got an ending — breathe. Allah saw every tear. He heard every silent prayer. And He never wastes pain.

Sometimes, what breaks you today prepares you to become someone stronger tomorrow.

> “Indeed, with hardship comes ease.” (Qur’an 94:6)



Your healing may not come from the person who hurt you. It may come from a quiet evening, a sincere du'a, a verse that feels like it was written for you.

And maybe, just maybe, from an old letter you never sent.


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Moral Reflection:

In a world that glorifies closure through confrontation, Islam gently reminds us that true peace comes from within. You don’t need to chase people for apologies. You don’t need to shout your pain to be heard.

You need one moment of sincere du’a. One step toward healing. One act of letting go — not because it didn’t matter, but because Allah matters more.

This story teaches us that not all stories need a loud ending. Some of the most powerful healing comes through words we never say aloud — but share only with the One who never stops listening.