Where Do Lost Words Go?

The night swallowed her voice, leaving only silence in its wake. She sat by the window, knees drawn to her chest, watching the city lights flicker like dying embers. Her breath fogged up the glass, a soft blur between her and the world outside.

She had written him a letter once. Not one, but many. Letters she never sent, words she never spoke. They sat in a box beneath her bed, folded between old dreams and quiet regrets.

"Where do lost words go?" she whispered, pressing her fingertips against the cold glass.

Do they vanish, like the final notes of a song, dissolving into nothingness?

Do they slip between the cracks of time, waiting to be found again?

Or do they haunt the spaces they were meant to fill, lingering in the hollow of an empty room, in the pause between heartbeats, in the quiet ache of unsaid goodbyes?

She thought of all the words she had swallowed—words of love, of longing, of sorrow too deep to name. They had burned in her throat, desperate to be set free, yet fear had kept them locked away. And now, it was too late.

She closed her eyes, listening to the rain tapping against the window. It spoke in a language she almost understood—a language of departure, of things slipping through fingers like water, of time that never waits.

Perhaps lost words find their way into the rain, falling in quiet confessions upon the earth.

Perhaps they become echoes, whispering through the wind, searching for the ears that were meant to hear them.

Perhaps they turn into stars, shining with the light of stories left untold, waiting for someone, someday, to give them a voice.

A tear slipped down her cheek, unnoticed, unheard. She reached for her pen, her hands trembling.

She would write—not for him, not for the past, but for herself. For the girl who had once been afraid to speak.

The ink met the paper, and with it, the lost words returned—one by one, like fireflies in the dark.

And this time, she let them shine.