Did You Get My Letter?

Did you get my letter?

I know, it’s a strange question. But I find myself asking it over and over, especially when the rain begins to fall. Something about the rhythm of raindrops on glass makes everything feel closer—memories, regrets, even you.

The letter wasn’t much. Just a white envelope with a piece of blue paper inside. It wasn’t even neatly written. Some of the ink had smudged where my fingers trembled. But still, I poured myself into every line. I wrote to you like I used to talk to you—freely, honestly, with all the tenderness you once knew so well.

I told you how I still hear your voice in the quiet. How I catch myself reaching for my phone to tell you things that don’t matter to anyone but us—like how the new barista at our favorite café finally got my order right, or how the flowers you planted last spring are blooming again, as if they, too, are waiting for you to come back and see them.

I wrote about the way I still make two cups of coffee, even though only one ever gets touched. Your mug—the one with the small crack near the handle—still sits on the shelf. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It feels like betraying you.

I wrote about how the world moved on, and how I didn’t.

People say grief is like a wave. That it comes and goes. But they forget to mention the tide. How it never really leaves you. How some days you feel like you’re drowning, and other days you manage to float—but you're still in the same sea.

I told you how I wait by the window sometimes, wondering if you're somehow out there. Just around the corner. Maybe stuck in traffic. Maybe about to knock on the door. Silly thoughts, I know. But grief makes poets out of all of us. And poets are known for dreaming things that aren't real.

Sometimes I think I see you in strangers. The way someone brushes back their hair, or the sound of a laugh in a crowd. My heart jumps before my mind reminds me: You’re gone. And no letter will bring you back.

Still, I write.

Because writing is remembering. And remembering is how I keep you here.

The truth is, I didn’t send the letter. I folded it neatly and placed it in the drawer next to the others. Yes—there are others. Dozens of them. Some long, some just a single line. All addressed to you. All unsent. Maybe it’s cowardice. Maybe it’s faith. Or maybe it’s love refusing to fade.

I think I’m scared. Scared that if I send a letter and it somehow reaches wherever you are, you might not write back. That silence would hurt more than anything.

So I let the letters pile up, hoping they say all the things I never could when you were here.

Did you get my letter?

No. I know you didn’t.

But maybe… just maybe… you felt it.

In the breeze that moved the curtain.

In the candle that flickered for no reason.

In the song that played on the radio, the one we used to hum in the car.

Maybe you got it in all the ways that don’t need stamps or ink.

And maybe, just maybe, your answer was in the stillness.

In the peace I felt after writing.

In the tears I didn’t fight this time.

In the heartbeat that said—

You’re still with me.