The Letter I Never Sent

I’ve written this letter a hundred times in my head, and maybe a dozen times on paper. But I never mailed it. I never had the courage—or perhaps the foolishness—to do so.

It’s been five years. Five years since you left without a proper goodbye. Maybe you thought we didn’t need one, or maybe you just didn’t want to face the truth. But I needed one. Still do.

The letter I never sent begins like this:

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Dear Ayaan,

I should hate you. I want to hate you. But I don’t. That’s the problem.

I still remember the way you laughed at your own jokes, how you always needed two spoons of sugar in your chai, and how you would hum old Bollywood songs when you thought no one was listening. I remember the day you walked into my life like you had always belonged there. And I remember the day you walked out, without turning back.

You told me you needed to "find yourself." You said it wasn't about me, it was about you. I wonder if people say that to ease their own guilt, or to soften the blow. Either way, it didn’t work. It shattered me.

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I fold that letter back into its hiding place every time I find it—buried between pages of forgotten journals, tucked in drawers filled with dust and memories.

There are days I imagine what would’ve happened if I sent it. Would you have written back? Would you have ignored it? Or worse—would you have responded out of pity?

Some things are better left unsaid. That’s what people tell me. But I think that’s just something we tell ourselves when we’re too afraid to speak the truth.

I never told you that I loved you.

Not in the way you deserved to hear it. Not in the way I meant it. I said things like “Take care,” and “Be safe,” and “You matter.” But I never said, “I love you,” because I thought I had time.

And then time ran out.

You moved on.

I watched your life unfold from a distance—social media posts, mutual friends, random updates. You smiled in photos with people I didn’t know. You looked happy. And every time I saw you, it hurt. Not because you were happy—no, I always wanted that for you. But because I wasn’t part of that happiness anymore.

I tried to forget you. I deleted your number, unfollowed your accounts, threw away the sweater you left behind. But forgetting isn’t the same as healing. And healing… healing is slow.

Sometimes I think about sending that letter now, all these years later. Just to say what I should have said when it mattered. But then I stop myself. Because the letter was never meant for you. It was meant for me.

It was my closure.

It was the version of goodbye I never got from you.

It was my way of letting go—not of the love, but of the weight I carried for too long.

So here it is, the letter I never sent. Maybe someday you’ll come across it, or maybe not. Maybe these words will live only here, in the space between heartbreak and acceptance.

But now, at least, they live.

And I can finally breathe.

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With love,

Always,

Me.