Litters I Never Sent

I’ve always believed words have weight. That’s why I wrote them down, and that’s why I never sent them.

The first letter I ever wrote to you was the night after you left. Not a goodbye—because you never gave me one—but a memory I couldn’t let go of. It was a Tuesday. You had that stupid green scarf wrapped three times around your neck even though it wasn’t cold. I hated that scarf. You said it smelled like your mother. I said that didn’t make it a good thing.

In the letter, I wrote about the way you looked at the sky that morning. Not up, but through it. Like you could see something I couldn’t. That always scared me about you—you looked too far ahead. You never stayed in a moment longer than necessary.

I folded that letter and tucked it into the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I didn't think I’d write another.

But I did.

Letter two came after the wedding. Not ours, obviously—someone else’s. You wouldn’t have come even if I’d invited you, but I imagined what you’d say if you had. The letter was full of things I wished I could’ve shouted across the hall during the first dance. Like how I still hear your laugh in crowded rooms and how I scan faces hoping yours will be there, even though I know it won’t be. I wrote it all down on a napkin I’d stuffed into my purse, then copied it neatly when I got home.

I burned that napkin, but I kept the copy.

Letter five—yes, five—was written the day I got the job. You always told me I was “meant for bigger things.” I remember the way your eyes lit up when I read you my short stories. You said they made you feel like you were falling through the page. No one ever said that to me again. I wanted you to know I made it. That your belief wasn’t wasted, even if the relationship was.

I signed it, “Still chasing stars. –E.”

And yet, I never mailed it.

There were more. Dozens, maybe. A few were angry. Some were just blank pages I folded anyway, needing the ritual more than the words. I used to think writing them was a way to move on. But now I know it was the opposite. I was holding on—in ink and paper—because it was safer than calling.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped dating. Not consciously. I’d say “I’m too busy” or “I haven’t met the right one,” but the truth was simpler: I kept measuring everyone against a ghost. Against someone who never truly belonged to me in the first place. You were always half in, half gone. And I let you stay that way because I was terrified of what it would mean if you ever fully left.

And then, three weeks ago, I saw your name in an obituary. No photo. Just a line about a “quiet man who loved literature and solitude.” It didn’t even mention your music. You used to hum while you cooked—off-key but full of joy. Did no one know that part of you? Or had you buried it, too?

I sat on my kitchen floor and cried until my chest burned. Then I did what I always do: I wrote. One more letter. This time, I addressed it to the sky. No drawer. No fire. Just me, your green scarf—yes, I kept it—and the sound of a city that didn’t care someone like you was gone.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought the stars would blink in Morse code or a wind would carry your voice back. Nothing happened. Just silence.

And yet, in that quiet, I found something close to peace.

So this is the last letter.

I won’t keep it. I won’t fold it. I won’t hide it.

Because this one’s not for you.
It’s for me.
To finally let go.
To say goodbye.

To the man I loved in fragments.

To the letters I never sent.

—E.