Letters I Never Sent

In the corner of a quiet room, under shelves of dusty books and old notebooks, sat a wooden desk that held a secret.

It was there that Rayyan wrote every Saturday afternoon.

The town had almost forgotten about Mehar, the girl with the wild laugh and stories in her eyes. But Rayyan hadn’t.

Not for a single week in the last two years.

They had been best friends since childhood. The kind of friends who shared secrets under trees, raced bicycles through muddy streets, and talked about the stars like they were personal companions.

Rayyan had loved her in silence for as long as he could remember.

But before he could tell her, she moved away—gone overnight to a far-off city with her father’s job transfer and no time for goodbyes.

She left behind a scarf, a drawing of them together, and an ache he couldn’t name.

He didn’t know where she went, or how long she’d be gone.

But he started writing her letters.

He poured everything into them—the things he couldn’t say, the poems he scribbled at midnight, the memories of them chasing fireflies or skipping school to sit by the river.

He never mailed any.

Because he didn’t know the address.

And maybe, deep down, he was scared.

**

The letters piled up. Sixty-four in total.

He tied them with blue ribbon and kept them in a drawer under the desk.

His life moved on—on the outside.

He went to college. Got a part-time job at a bookstore. Learned how to smile at strangers and say he was doing “fine.”

But every Saturday, he returned to the desk.

And every time, he ended the letter the same way:

"If you ever come back, I’ll be here. Waiting. Writing. Still yours, quietly."

**

On a rainy morning in July, everything changed.

Rayyan was stacking shelves at the bookstore when he saw her.

Mehar.

Older now, her hair shorter, her eyes the same.

She smiled like a memory that refused to fade.

“I thought this might be the first place I’d find you,” she said.

He dropped the book in his hand.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” he whispered.

“I never forgot you,” she replied. “Not even for a moment.”

**

They walked to the old neighborhood, talking about everything and nothing.

She told him about her life—big cities, smaller rooms, loneliness in crowded places.

He told her about the bookstore, his writing, the desk he still used.

“I always wondered,” she said quietly, “if you ever thought about me.”

He smiled sadly.

And led her to the desk.

When she saw the stack of letters, she froze.

“You wrote all these?”

“Every week.”

“Why didn’t you send them?”

“I didn’t know where to.”

She opened the top letter and read the first line.

Then the second.

By the third, she was crying.

“I thought I was the only one who felt this way,” she said.

“You weren’t,” he said. “You never were.”

**

They sat by the window as rain tapped gently against the glass.

She read letter after letter. He watched her like someone memorizing the sunrise.

Finally, she looked at him.

“Do you still write?”

“Only when I miss you.”

“And how often is that?”

“Every day.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out something small—a folded piece of paper, creased from age.

“I wrote this the night I left,” she said. “But I never sent it either.”

He opened it.

It was a drawing. Two people on a bench under stars.

And below it, the words:

"Come find me in the pages. I left pieces of my heart there for you."

**

The rain stopped. The sky softened.

They didn’t speak for a while.

They didn’t have to.

Because sometimes love doesn’t arrive in grand confessions or fireworks.

Sometimes, it waits in letters that never reached the mailbox, in promises scribbled on the edge of silence.

And sometimes, if you’re lucky enough, love comes back.

Just in time to be read.