Letters to the Girl I Never Met

By; Abdullah

Letter #1 — March 3, 2023

Dear You,

I don’t know your name.

Not yet, anyway.

But I’m writing this letter because I saw a woman on the train today with hair like rain-soaked leaves and eyes that carried too many stories. And for a moment, I imagined what it would be like if she were you.

We didn’t speak. Of course not.

But something about her made me feel like maybe you’re real. Somewhere.

So, here’s the first letter. Just in case.

–M

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Letter #4 — June 12, 2023

Dear You,

Today I walked past a bookstore I haven’t visited in years. The window was fogged, and I swear it smelled like your laugh.

I don’t know how I know what your laugh smells like. But I do. It’s a mix of cinnamon, worn paper, and the faintest memory of spring.

I stood there for twenty minutes like an idiot.

I wondered if you would’ve dragged me inside, picked a random book, and made me read a line out loud to a stranger. I bet you’re the kind of person who does that—lives in moments like they matter.

I think I’m learning how to do that, too.

With hope,

–M

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Letter #9 — November 5, 2023

Dear You,

Do you believe in missed connections?

Not the romantic kind—more like the ones where we almost become someone else.

I was supposed to move to London last year. I canceled last minute. I wonder who I would’ve been if I’d gone. I wonder if I would’ve found you there, under gray skies and the sound of sirens.

Maybe we passed each other in Heathrow, both too tired to look up.

Or maybe you were in the cafe I avoided because the line was too long.

I like to think the universe is circling us like a hawk.

Not yet, it says. But soon.

Still circling,

–M

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Letter #13 — February 14, 2024

Dear You,

It’s Valentine’s Day.

I saw couples everywhere—flowers clutched awkwardly, chocolate boxes rattling in tote bags, the whole red-heart charade.

But I wasn’t sad.

I thought about you. Not with loneliness, but with this strange, quiet patience.

It’s a weird thing to miss someone you’ve never met.

But I do.

I miss the way I imagine you say my name.

–M

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Letter #18 — July 30, 2024

Dear You,

I met someone last week.

She smiled like morning light and ordered black coffee with a side of sarcasm. We laughed. A lot.

And for a while, I thought maybe—

But she wasn’t you.

She didn’t ask about the books on my shelf. She didn’t notice I don’t eat the crust.

She was lovely. Just not you.

Maybe you’re a myth. A mosaic made of moments and wishful thinking.

Still, I keep writing.

Still, I believe.

Still yours,

–M

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Letter #23 — January 1, 2025

Dear You,

New year. Same notebook.

I should’ve stopped this by now, right?

But here’s the truth: writing to you has kept me... whole.

I’ve told you things I’ve never told anyone.

You are the quiet in my chaos. The echo I trust.

And maybe that’s enough.

But maybe—just maybe—this is how I find you.

Happy New Year, wherever you are.

–M

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Letter #28 — August 2, 2025

Dear You,

I almost didn’t write today.

Almost.

But then I walked into that little gallery downtown, the one with the crooked paintings and dusty light.

You were there.

I didn’t know it was you at first. You were staring at a painting called “Silence Between Notes.”

You turned.

Smiled.

And said, “Took you long enough.”

I forgot how to breathe.

You: with the cinnamon laugh, the unread stories in your eyes, the rain-soaked hair.

This isn’t a letter anymore.

This is the beginning.

–M