Letters I Never Sent
The Quiet Weight of What Stayed on the Page
They sit in a shoebox
beneath my bed—
creased,
stained with coffee,
some corners curled like they were
too tired to hold their shape.
I never mailed them.
Not one.
But I wrote each
like it could change everything.
And maybe it did—
just not for you.
There’s one for my father,
full of questions I never asked:
Why did you leave the room
when things got too loud?
Why did silence become
your favorite language?
Another for her—
the girl with a laugh
that stuck in my ribs.
I told her how I memorized
the freckle constellation on her shoulder,
how I still feel her name
like a splinter
beneath my tongue.
And one I wrote to myself
on a night when the walls
felt too tight to breathe.
I promised I’d make it through.
I did.
Barely.
But I did.
The pages smell like
ink,
dust,
regret.
Each one a timestamp of who I was
when I thought I couldn’t say
what needed saying
out loud.
Sometimes I reread them—
not to feel the ache again,
but to honor it.
Like lighting a candle
for something that once mattered
enough to bleed onto paper.
Maybe someday,
someone will find them
and know
that I tried to be brave
in my own quiet way.
That I chose to write,
even when I didn’t send.
And maybe that’s enough.
About the Creator
Rahul Sanaodwala
Hi, I’m the Founder of the StriWears.com, Poet and a Passionate Writer with a Love for Learning and Sharing Knowledge across a Variety of Topics.
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Comments (1)
This is some powerful stuff. It makes me think about all the things I've never said. I've got a box of old letters too, but they're more about work stuff. I wonder what would happen if I dug them out and read them now. Do you think it's better to keep these feelings locked away, or is there something cathartic about putting them on paper, even if they never go anywhere? And how do you think the person who finds these letters will react?