Letters I Never Sent

Some words stay locked in the chest, too heavy to speak, too fragile to release. These are the letters I never sent—quiet confessions to ghosts, shadows, and versions of myself I can never meet again.

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To My Lost Friend

You would laugh if you saw me now. Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d shake your head, the way you did when I forgot to eat or let silence grow too loud between us. I still keep your number in my phone, though I know it won’t ever light up again.

The day you left, I folded all my grief into neat compartments, but regret leaks through the cracks. I never told you that your friendship was the map that kept me from wandering too far into the dark.

If I could send this, I would write: You mattered more than you knew. And though the world has gone on spinning, a part of me is still sitting beside you on that old park bench, waiting for one more joke, one more story, one more day.

But I can’t send it. So I fold the letter, place it in the drawer with your photo, and let silence keep its watch.

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To My Parent

I inherited your eyes, and maybe your stubbornness too. But I never said the words that pressed against my throat whenever you worked late nights, whenever you came home too tired to speak.

I wish I had told you how I noticed the way your hands ached, how you carried the world on your back without asking for applause. I resented you once for the distance, for the silence that filled the kitchen more than conversation. I see now that silence was your love language—the unspoken sacrifices, the meals on the table, the steady roof over our heads.

If I could send this, I would write: I forgive you for not knowing how to say “I love you.” I hope you forgive me for never saying it enough.

Instead, the words stay here, heavy and unfinished.

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To My Past Lover

We were a storm, weren’t we? Bright and terrifying, beautiful and destructive. I have rewritten our ending a thousand times in my head, as though some softer goodbye could erase the scars we left behind.

There are things I never said—like how your laugh felt like summer even when the world outside was cold. Or how I knew, deep down, that we were breaking long before we admitted it. I wanted to hold on, but love turned into something sharp in our hands.

If I could send this, I would write: I don’t hate you. I never did. I only hated the parts of me that surfaced when I was with you—the fear, the weakness, the silence. Thank you for teaching me how fragile love can be, and how resilient I could become after it shattered.

But sending it would reopen wounds that have only just begun to scar over. So I let the letter dissolve in my mind, like ink running under rain.

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To My Younger Self

You were braver than you realized, though you cried in secret and thought no one understood. I wish I could tell you that the things you thought would break you—the loneliness, the shame, the weight of wanting to be enough—would one day shape you instead.

You apologized too much. You thought being small would protect you. You thought your worth depended on others seeing it. If I could send this, I would write: Lift your head. You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to be loved without earning it. One day, you will forgive yourself for being human.

But you’ll never read this. You already lived through the storms and became me. Still, I write, because maybe writing is the closest thing to time travel I will ever know.

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To the Future Me

You don’t exist yet, not fully. But sometimes I imagine you reading these letters and smiling with recognition, or perhaps with relief. I wonder if regret will still follow you like a shadow, or if you will finally learn how to let go.

If I could send this, I would write: Please be gentle with the present me. Please remember that every step, every mistake, every silence and unsent letter was part of the path that led to you.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll write back.

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Closing

These letters live in the liminal space between my heart and the world—written but unsent, fragile but enduring. They are confessions without destinations, truths wrapped in silence. Perhaps one day I will speak them aloud.

Until then, I keep writing. Because sometimes the act of writing, even to no one, is enough to remind me that I am still here.