The Unsent Letters

Introduction:

There are some feelings in human life that are not said, only written. Then there are some letters that are written, but never sent. They accumulate in drawers, old envelopes, or in the secret chambers of the heart. This is the story of some such unsent letters—of a life, of a love, of an unspoken ending.

1. First Letter — When You Went.

Date: January 15, 2017

Dear Sarah,

This is the first time I have picked up a pen since you left. I know this letter will never reach you. Still, I am writing, because the fact that you were there reminds me again and again of the loneliness of this New York.

That day at Penn Station, when the train was leaving the platform, you were sitting by the window and crying. I stood silently on the platform. I wanted to say so much, but I couldn't. Today I say—I loved you, I loved you very much. But I couldn’t explain love to the me back then.

You said, ‘Love doesn’t just mean being, it means understanding.’ I never learned that language of understanding. Now I just read the last text you sent and cry—“If you had said it once, I would have stayed…”

With love,

– Atik

2. Second letter — Your wedding day

Date: November 12, 2019

Sarah,

Today is your wedding. I saw the picture on Instagram—white gown, pearl jewelry, smiling face. The familiar face seemed very unfamiliar today. You got married in that garden in California, where one day we both sat and dreamed.

Your husband Michael is smiling, looking at you. I also saw such a smile in your eyes one day, for me. Today that smile is for someone else.

I want to send the letter, but I know that if I send it, you will say, "You are too late." So I quietly watch the beginning of your new life from a corner of Manhattan.

I wish that your life is filled with happiness—yet somewhere inside there remains a point of pain, which can be written in a letter, but cannot be sent.

With love,

– Atik

3. Third letter — "When you become a mother"

Date: March 28, 2022

Sarah,

You are a mother now. I saw Michael's post on LinkedIn. You named your daughter 'Emily'. A great name. Soft, sweet, and touching, just like you like.

How has becoming a mother changed you? Is that teenager still alive in you? The girl who cried at the moon on the Columbia University campus, who was lulled to sleep by the sound of Seattle's rain?

Writing this letter is not just about keeping up with the news, but also about asking myself—could I have built a life like this with you in Portland? Could I have woken up to the sound of a baby crying in the morning?

You can, I know. Maybe because I couldn't, you are someone else's wife today, the mother of someone else's child.

With love,

– Atik

4. Fourth letter — The day my father died

Date:September 5, 2023

Sarah,

Today my father died. You weren't told, because we are no longer anyone, right? He breathed his last in a Brooklyn hospital.

My father often spoke of you toward the end. He would say, "If you had a daughter like Sarah, your life would have been sorted out." I would shake my head, and remain silent with tears in my eyes.

I found a letter on my father's desk, which read—"You write letters, but why don't you send them?"

What should I tell my father? I would tell him, there are some letters that cannot be sent.

With love,

– Atik

5. Fifth letter — Writing for the last time.

Date: January 1, 2025

Sarah,

Today is New Year's. Everyone is celebrating in Times Square in Manhattan. I am alone again, sitting by the window of my apartment, writing—my last letter to you.

I know I won't send this letter. The previous ones haven't been sent either. But today I realized that the letters are not just for you, but for me too. They are a document of my silent pain. A diary of my unfinished love.

It's hard to live thinking about you, but writing about you gives me peace.

Be well. May your daughter Emily never grow up to write a letter that she can never send.

With love for the last time,

– Atik

Conclusion:

The letters may have never been sent, but each letter contained a word from the heart. No one knew, no one read, but I know—he loved, completely silently.

Sometimes love does not mean speaking, but writing. And some are written just for oneself—which, even if they are letters, never go to the mailbox, only to the pages of a lonely diary.

Those letters are still lying in Adil's drawer in that small apartment in New York. Maybe one day someone will find them, read them, and understand—some love remains silent, some words remain unspoken, some letters remain unsent.