The Last Letter

The envelope had no return address. Just her name, handwritten in the familiar, slanted script she hadn’t seen in over a year.

Claire.

She held the envelope as though it might dissolve in her fingers. Her heart pounded with a strange mix of dread and longing. It had been 402 days since James walked out of their tiny apartment without looking back. 402 days since she had cried herself to sleep, wondering what had gone wrong. He hadn't texted. He hadn't called. And now, suddenly, this.

She tore it open with shaking hands.

My Claire,

If you're reading this, I’m already gone. Not in a dramatic, I’m-disappearing-forever way. Just... not here anymore. Physically. Maybe emotionally too—who knows. I never was great with feelings. You used to tell me that all the time. But this time, I need you to hear me. Really hear me.

I left not because I stopped loving you, but because I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved. I was scared. Of what we had. Of how real it was. Of the idea that you might wake up one day and realize I wasn’t enough.

So, I did the only thing cowards do. I ran.

Claire sat down on the edge of the couch. The letter fluttered in her hands like it had a heartbeat. She read on, breath held in her chest.

I kept thinking I’d write to you. A hundred times I picked up a pen. A thousand times I typed out a message I never sent. I told myself you were better off. That forgetting me was better than remembering how I broke your heart.

But forgetting you? That never happened. Your laugh still echoes when I walk past coffee shops. I still see your eyes in my dreams, even when I’m awake. You haunt me—not like a ghost, but like a prayer I never deserved.

There’s so much I never said. And this is my only way of saying it now.

Claire wiped a tear from her cheek. It fell, staining the ink just slightly, like a smudge of memory refusing to stay in the past.

You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I didn’t know how to hold on to something so pure, so real. I kept waiting for the cracks to show. For you to change. For you to stop choosing me. But you never did.

I’m sorry for not believing in us. I’m sorry for not trusting you. I’m sorry for being the reason you had to heal from something you didn’t break.

And I know sorry isn’t enough.

Claire paused. Part of her wanted to throw the letter into the fireplace. Another part wanted to clutch it to her chest and cry until morning. But most of her just wanted to finish it—to know if he had found peace. Or if he was still running.

I met someone after I left. Nothing serious. Just a distraction, I guess. She laughed at my jokes, but it never reached my heart the way yours did. No one has. No one will.

This isn’t a letter asking for another chance. I wouldn’t ask that of you—not after everything. I just wanted you to know the truth, because you deserve that much. You always did.

You saved me once. From myself, from the world. And I let you go because I didn’t believe I was worth saving. I hope you’ve found someone who sees your worth every single day.

I hope you wake up smiling.

And if you ever think of me, I hope it’s not with bitterness, but with peace. Because loving you was the one thing I got right. Even if I couldn’t hold onto it.

Goodbye, Claire.

Always, James

The room felt too quiet when she finished reading. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, like the world had stopped for a moment to listen.

She folded the letter slowly, pressing it to her lips before placing it gently in the drawer next to her bed—the same drawer that still held a dried rose from their first date, and the movie ticket from that rainy Wednesday night they got caught dancing in the parking lot.

Claire didn’t cry again. She didn’t rage, or scream, or call him back.

She just stood up, walked to the window, and let the light of a new morning spill across her face.

Because sometimes, the last letter isn’t about reopening old wounds.

Sometimes, it’s the permission you didn’t know you needed… to finally let go.