Letters Never Sent

There’s a kind of silence that lingers not in the air, but in the soul—a silence made of unsaid words, unopened envelopes, and feelings that were too heavy to carry out loud. I’ve lived in that silence. I’ve grown around it like ivy crawling up an old wall, holding on to things that were never said. This is a story of letters never sent—words I wrote with trembling hands and a heart too afraid to speak them.

We all have someone we write to in our minds. Sometimes, it's someone we lost. Sometimes, it’s someone we never had. And sometimes, it’s the version of ourselves that never got to speak. For me, it was him.

His name still tastes like a secret I never meant to keep.

It started with a notebook. Just a regular one—blue cover, lined pages, nothing extraordinary. I bought it one rainy evening after passing by a bookstore I rarely noticed before. Something about the day, or maybe the way the clouds pressed against the windows, made me stop and walk in. I told myself I’d write more. I didn’t realize I’d end up writing to him.

"Dear You,"

I always started that way. Not with his name. I couldn't. Saying his name made everything real, and I was too careful for that. Too cautious with my heart. Too used to building walls instead of bridges.

Each letter I wrote felt like carving a piece of myself out onto the page. They were never dramatic confessions or poetic declarations. Just small truths. Memories. Moments I wanted to remember. Things like:

How your laugh sounded like a secret between two people who shouldn't have been laughing together.

How you touched my shoulder that day when you didn’t need to, and I felt warm for hours.

How you never knew I was in love with you.

I never intended to send them. I couldn’t. I was dating someone else. He was engaged. Life had already moved ahead of us while we were still stuck in the quiet understanding of what could have been.

Isn’t it strange how some people never leave us, even if they never belonged to us? He was like a favorite song I couldn't stop humming, long after the music ended. It wasn't just love—it was timing, missed chances, and conversations we were too scared to have.

I watched his wedding photos online. Smiled at how happy he looked. Pressed the heart emoji like a polite stranger. Then wrote another letter.

"Dear You,"

Today, I watched you promise forever to someone else. And still, I couldn’t help but wonder if you ever felt what I did. Was there a moment when you looked at me just a little too long? Did you ever think of me before you fell asleep? Did your heart skip the way mine did when we stood too close?

I’ll never know.

And maybe it’s better that way.

I stopped writing after a while. Life, as it always does, moved on. I got married too. Had a daughter. Learned to love someone who loved me back in full sentences, not hidden glances. But I kept the notebook.

And sometimes, when the night is quiet enough and the world outside is still, I open it. I don’t read the letters. I just hold them. Like relics of a version of me that only existed in those unwritten stories.

There’s a strange kind of peace in never sending a letter.

It gives the words a home without the risk.

No expectations. No consequences.

Just truth—pure and private.

Maybe that’s the kind of love some stories are meant for. The kind that isn’t messy or loud. The kind that lives between the lines, in pauses and sighs, in unsent messages and saved drafts. Some loves are too soft for the world, so they stay pressed between the pages, like dried flowers—fragile but preserved.

If you're reading this and you have your own letters never sent, know this:

You’re not alone.

We’ve all loved someone in silence. We’ve all had words too heavy to speak. And sometimes, just sometimes, writing them down is enough.

Because not every story is meant to be heard.

Some are simply meant to be felt.

Between the lines.

Between the moments.

Between the hearts that never dared to meet.

"Dear You,"

I never told you this, but thank you.

For being the reason I learned to write my heart out.

Even if you never read a single word.