An Unsent Letter to Someone I Lost

I still have your number saved.

I don’t know why I haven’t deleted it. Maybe because deleting it would feel too final. Maybe because some small, irrational part of me still believes one day my phone will light up with your name.

This is the letter I never sent you.

I almost did, once. It was 1:17 a.m., and I had typed three paragraphs in my notes app. I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Then I deleted them. Pride? Fear? Self-respect? I’m still not sure which one won.

When we stopped talking, it wasn’t explosive. No slammed doors. No dramatic goodbye. Just distance. Slower replies. Shorter conversations. Until one day there was nothing left to shorten.

That’s the part that hurt the most.

I kept replaying our last normal conversation in my head, trying to find the crack where everything started breaking. Did I miss something? Did you? Or were we both slowly drifting and too stubborn to admit it?

You were part of my everyday rhythm. The “Did you get home safe?” texts. The random memes. The small updates about nothing that somehow felt like everything. Losing you felt less like losing a person and more like losing a version of my life.

I didn’t realize how much of my day was shaped around you until you were gone.

For weeks, I’d reach for my phone without thinking. I’d see something funny and instinctively want to send it. That reflex hurt. It’s strange how grief can hide inside habits.

Here’s the part I never said: I was angry.

Not the loud, dramatic kind. The quiet kind. The kind that sits heavy in your chest. I was angry that you didn’t fight harder. Angry that I was the one who kept trying to restart conversations. Angry that I cared more.

Or at least it felt that way.

But underneath the anger was something softer. I missed you. I missed who I was when we were good. I missed feeling chosen.

Do you ever miss someone and question your own memory at the same time? Wonder if you exaggerated how much they meant to you? Or worse, if they never felt it the way you did?

I used to rehearse conversations with you in my head. I’d imagine you saying you were overwhelmed, or scared, or just bad at communicating. I’d imagine myself being calm and understanding, finally saying all the right things.

But in real life, there’s no script. Just silence.

One night, I opened our old messages and scrolled all the way to the beginning. It felt like flipping through a photo album of people we weren’t anymore. We were lighter back then. Less guarded. We laughed more easily.

And I had to sit with a hard truth: we didn’t just lose each other. We changed.

Somewhere along the way, I started shrinking parts of myself to keep the peace. I told myself it was compromise. I told myself love required softening your edges. But there’s a difference between softening and disappearing.

That realization didn’t come all at once.

It came slowly, in quiet moments. When I noticed I wasn’t anxious about my phone anymore. When I could go a full day without checking to see if you’d viewed my story. When I laughed — really laughed — without wondering if I should tell you about it later.

Healing didn’t look dramatic. It looked ordinary.

I started pouring energy into friendships I’d neglected. I picked up hobbies I’d put on pause. I went for long walks without headphones, just letting my thoughts stretch out instead of looping back to you.

And still, some nights, I missed you.

That’s the complicated part no one talks about. Growth and longing can coexist. You can know something wasn’t right for you and still wish it had worked.

If I’m honest, this letter isn’t about getting you back. It’s about letting you go properly.

I never told you that you hurt me. I never told you I felt replaceable. I never told you how confusing it was to watch someone slowly fade instead of simply saying goodbye.

So here it is.

You mattered to me.

What we had mattered to me.

And losing you changed me.

But it didn’t break me.

For a while, I thought closure meant a conversation. An explanation. An apology. Now I’m starting to think closure is something quieter. It’s the moment you realize you don’t need them to understand your pain in order to move forward.

Have you ever waited for an apology you knew might never come?

Have you ever had to create your own ending because the other person wouldn’t?

I used to think strength meant holding on. Fighting. Proving that something was worth saving. Now I think sometimes strength is accepting that not everyone is meant to stay.

We were a chapter. Not the whole story.

And maybe that’s okay.

If I ever do delete your number, I hope it won’t be out of bitterness. I hope it will be because I’ve made peace with the space you left behind. Because that space isn’t empty anymore. It’s filled with lessons. Boundaries. A clearer sense of what I deserve.

I don’t hate you.

I don’t even resent you.

I just don’t wait for you anymore.

This letter will stay unsent. Not because the words don’t matter, but because they were never really for you.

They were for me.

And maybe for anyone else who’s ever stared at a glowing screen at 1 a.m., wondering whether to press send.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is close the message, set the phone down, and choose yourself instead.

And if you’ve lost someone too — not to death, but to distance — I hope you know this:

You can miss them and still move forward.

You can love what was and still outgrow it.

You can write the letter… and never send it.

Sometimes that’s enough.