Chapter 32: The Letter I Never Wrote
There's something haunting about silence — not the kind that fills a room, but the kind that stretches across years.
She sat by the window again.
The same window where she'd once waited for footsteps, messages, a knock on the door that never came. The light outside had changed a hundred times — seasons cycling like pages in a book she never stopped reading.
Today, though, she wasn't waiting.
Today, she was remembering.
Not the moments they shared — those had been visited too many times already. Today, she was remembering the one letter she never wrote. The one that lived only in her mind, too heavy to put to paper.
It had no beginning.
Because where do you begin with a love that almost was?
Not quite a love story.
Not quite a tragedy.
Something softer. Stranger. Bittersweet.
If she had written it, it might've said:
"I forgive you.
Not because you asked me to,
but because I finally needed to stop carrying the version of you
that lived only in my memories."
But she never wrote it.
Because that letter wasn't meant for him.
It was meant for her.
She thought about the nights she cried without reason, the mornings she smiled without meaning to, and all the quiet afternoons where healing came not like thunder — but like a gentle hand on the shoulder of her soul.
It took years.
Years to realize she didn't need closure from him.
She needed closure from the part of herself that thought he was the only ending that made sense.
And so she sat there, staring at a blank sheet of paper — not to write, not to send — but to finally allow herself to leave it blank.
Some letters are never written not because they're forgotten,
but because their silence says everything.
She folded the blank paper gently and placed it at the bottom of her drawer.
Not a goodbye.
Not a confession.
Just a quiet reminder that she survived without saying it.