The Love Letter You Find While Packing for the Move

You weren’t looking for it—

just clearing out the junk drawer

full of dead batteries and orphaned keys

when the envelope slipped loose,

your name in that handwriting

you’d know anywhere,

even after all this time.

Inside, a single page,

edges softened by years of existing unseen.

*"If you’re reading this,"* it begins,

*"it means I chickened out again."*

And suddenly you’re twenty-three,

standing in the kitchen of your first apartment,

watching steam rise from two coffee cups

as she bites her lip,

trying to find the courage

to tell you what’s already written here.

The ink has faded,

but the ache hasn’t.

That particular shade of longing

that comes from loving someone

before you’ve learned

how to love without fear.

You trace the curve of her *y*’s,

the way she always dotted her *i*’s

like she was leaving tiny marks

to find her way back.

Now you stand in a different kitchen,

holding proof that some feelings

don’t expire—

they just wait.

The house is quiet.

Your phone lights up with a new text:

*"Found the good tape! Also… miss you."*

And for the first time in years,

you let yourself wonder

about roads not taken,

about second chances,

about how maybe

some stories aren’t finished

just because you closed the book.