The Shape of What She Didn't Say

I. Catalog

She did not tell him she found his laugh too loud for restaurants.

She did not correct him when he introduced her as his girlfriend to his mother, though they had been on four dates and she had not agreed to this.

She did not say I'm not sure about this when he asked if she wanted to make it official. She said okay.

She did not mention that okay was not the same as yes.

She did not tell him she spent their anniversary dinner thinking about whether the couple two tables over would break up before dessert. They did. She envied them.

She did not explain why she stopped initiating. He initiated enough for both of them.

She did not clarify that I'm tired sometimes meant I'm tired and sometimes meant I don't want you to touch me and sometimes meant I am so tired of not saying what I mean.

She did not return his toothbrush when he left it at her apartment. It stayed in the holder for seven months.

She did not say I think we should break up. She let it happen naturally with him initiating and asking for spae.

She did not define how much space. She did not define for how long.

She did not answer his calls for three weeks, then four, then it had been two months and calling back seemed cruel in a way that not calling back did not.

She did not tell him it was over. She simply stopped being available until the relationship died of exposure.

She did not feel guilty. She noticed this. She did not feel guilty about not feeling guilty.

She did not ask him to stop writing.

II. Versions

What he remembers: The night she laughed so hard at his impression of her boss that she cried, and she leaned into him on the couch, and he thought: this is it, this is the one.

What happened: She laughed because the impression was cruel and accurate. She leaned because she was tired. She thought: he would be a good friend. I wish I had met him some other way.

What he remembers: Her saying okay with a small smile, and the way she looked down at her hands, shy, when he asked her to be his girlfriend.

What happened: She looked down at her hands because she was calculating. The calculus was this: he is kind, I am twenty-nine, saying no will require an explanation I don't have the energy to give, saying yes requires nothing.

What he remembers: Making love. Tenderness. Her quietness afterward as something sacred.

What happened: Sex. Competence. Her quietness afterward was the absence of anything to say.

What he remembers: A relationship that worked, until suddenly it didn't. A woman who loved him, until suddenly she couldn't. There must have been something—a reason, a moment, a thing he did wrong that he could fix if only she would tell him.

What happened: There was never anything to fix. The machine was never broken. It was simply never turned on.

III. Letters

March 14, 2024

Dear [—],

I know you said you needed space. I'm trying to respect that. But I keep thinking about that weekend in Vermont, the one where the power went out and we just talked for hours by candlelight. Do you remember? You said it was the most yourself you'd felt in years. I think about that all the time. I think about who we were then. I think we could find our way back to that. I know we could. Just tell me what you need.

I love you.

[—]

She read it twice. She did not remember saying that in Vermont. She might have. It sounded like something she would say to fill silence.

She folded the letter. She put it in the drawer with her tax documents.

June 2, 2024

[—],

Happy birthday. I hope you're doing something that makes you happy today. I mailed you something—nothing big, just something I saw that reminded me of you. If it doesn't arrive, maybe your mail is being weird. Or maybe you moved. Did you move? It occurs to me I don't know if you still live there. I don't know a lot of things anymore.

I'm not asking for anything. I just wanted you to know I remembered.

[—]

The gift was a small ceramic fox. She had mentioned once, early on, that she liked foxes. She did not remember saying this. She did not particularly like foxes.

She put the fox on her windowsill. It watched the street. She did not write back.

September 19, 2024

I saw your sister at the grocery store. She didn't see me. Or she pretended not to. I didn't say anything. What would I say?

I don't understand what happened to us. I've gone over it a hundred times. I keep waiting for it to make sense.

I'm not angry. I want you to know that. I'm not angry at you. I just miss you. I miss you in this really quiet way that doesn't seem to get smaller. I thought it would get smaller.

I still have your book. The poetry one you left at my place. I could mail it to you. Or I could keep it. I don't know which you'd want. You could tell me, if you wanted.

[—]

She did not want the book back. She did not remember which book it was. She had a lot of poetry books. She bought them and rarely finished them.

She thought: I hope he finds someone.

She did not write this. She did not write anything.

January 3, 2025

Happy new year.

I've been seeing a therapist. She says I should stop writing these. She says you've made your choice clear through your silence. She's probably right.

But here's the thing: I don't think you chose. I don't think you've ever chosen anything when it comes to me. I think you just let things happen, and then you let them stop happening, and somewhere in that there was supposed to be an answer but I never got it.

Maybe that's the answer. Maybe your not-choosing is the choice.

I'm going to try to stop writing after this one. I probably won't. But I'm going to try.

[—]

She read this one three times. It was the most accurate thing he had ever said about her.

She put it with the others. There were eleven now. She did not count them; she simply knew.

February 8, 2025

Okay, so I didn't stop. But this is the last one. I mean it this time.

I started dating someone. Her name is Angela. She's nice. She asks me questions and actually listens to the answers. When I asked if she wanted to be official, she said yes like she meant it. I didn't realize how unusual that was until I had it.

I'm not telling you this to hurt you. I don't think it would hurt you anyway. I'm telling you because I think I finally understand something: you couldn't give me what I needed because you didn't have it. Not for me. Maybe not for anyone. I don't know. I'm not inside your head.

I hope you're okay. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for, or that you stop looking, or whatever would make you happy. I genuinely hope that. I didn't think I would, but I do.

Goodbye, [—].

For real this time.

[—]

She smiled when she read it. She was glad about Angela. Angela sounded like someone who would say yes and mean it.

She put the letter in the drawer. She thought: good.

November 22, 2025

I know I said I wouldn't write again. Angela and I broke up. It wasn't about you—I don't want you to think it was about you. It just didn't work out.

These things happen.

I thought about not writing. But I've been thinking about you a lot lately, and I guess some habits are hard to break. I don't even know what I want from you anymore. Maybe nothing. Maybe I just want to know you're out there, reading these. Or maybe you throw them away without opening them. That would be okay too. At least they arrive somewhere.

I'm doing all right. Work is good. I adopted a cat. Her name is Miso. I think you'd like her. She ignores me most of the time.

[—]

She read it. She put it in the drawer. There were thirteen now.

She thought: I hope he finds someone.

She did not write this. She closed the drawer.

IV. Rhythm

A letter arrives. It is a Tuesday in January. She recognizes the handwriting on the envelope. She opens it with a butter knife because she has never owned a letter opener.

He writes about his new apartment. He writes that he's started running again. He asks nothing of her directly but the asking is there, underneath, the way it always is.

She folds the letter. She puts it in the drawer. She thinks: I hope he finds someone. She makes dinner. She does not write back.

A letter arrives. It is a Saturday in March. She has been on two dates with a man named Paul who teaches high school history and laughs at appropriate volumes.

The letter is short. He writes that he saw a fox and thought of her. He does not ask her to write back. He does not not-ask either. The space where a question would go is heavy with its absence.

She folds the letter. She puts it in the drawer. She thinks: I hope he finds someone. She texts Paul about dinner. She does not write back.

A letter arrives. It is a Thursday in June. Paul is gone now. She did not feel much about his going.

The letter mentions a trip he took to Vermont. Not the same cabin. A different one. He writes that he thought about her there but not as much as he expected. He sounds surprised by his own healing.

She folds the letter. She puts it in the drawer. She thinks: I hope he finds someone. She waters the plant on her windowsill. She does not write back.

A letter arrives.

She opens it.

She folds it.

She puts it in the drawer.

She thinks: I hope he finds someone.

She does not write back.

A letter arrives.