“The Letters I Never Sent”

I’ve written a hundred letters to you.

None of them were mailed. They live in the back of my notebooks, hidden between pages of to-do lists, groceries, and half-finished poems. I never had the courage to send them—not because I feared rejection, but because I feared they would become real.

You see, sometimes unspoken love feels safer. It can’t be ruined. It stays perfect, untouched by time, arguments, or reality.

But maybe that’s not love. Maybe that’s just comfort wearing love’s disguise.

---

The first letter was short.

It simply said, *“I hope you smile when you think of me.”*

I didn’t even sign it.

That was the year we met. We were two strangers with overlapping stories—your kindness helped me rediscover the parts of myself I thought I’d buried. In a world full of noise, you were my quiet.

In the second letter, I wrote about the way your laughter carried in a room, and how it made mine follow without permission. I said, *“I think happiness is contagious, and I caught mine from you.”*

But again—I folded it, placed it in the drawer, and said nothing.

---

There were letters written after you left too.

Letters where I admitted that missing someone doesn’t always mean you want them back.

Where I realized healing doesn’t come from others—it begins when we stop expecting them to fill in our blanks.

One night, in a dim-lit room, I wrote:

*“You didn’t break me. You showed me the cracks. I was just too afraid to look.”*

And that became the first letter I wrote for myself.

---

**So why am I telling you this now?**

Because maybe someone out there is holding on to their unsent letters, waiting for the right time to speak their truth. Maybe they need to know it’s okay if some feelings never become conversations.

You don’t have to be loved back for your love to be valid.

Sometimes, the most profound love stories are the ones we live quietly—between the lines of journal pages, inside late-night thoughts, or in prayers we whisper for someone else’s peace.

---

If I ever send these letters, I won’t expect an answer.

Because some stories are just meant to be written.

Not finished.