Letter 28

 

It started as something strange.
Every Friday, a letter in her mailbox. No name. No address. No social hints. Just soft, worn paper, and handwriting that felt like rain if it could write.

At first, she thought it was a mistake. But by the third letter, she stopped questioning it. He noticed the kinds of things no one talks about, the way light shifted on library floors, how old songs made new wounds hurt less, how it felt to be filled with words but still be unseen.

She never wrote back, not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t know where to send it. She folded her thoughts into letters she never mailed. Until Letter 27.

She went to the post office, pleaded, pieced together his possible route, and found an address, half-hope, half-luck. For the first time, she sent a letter.

A week later, Letter 28 arrived. But it wasn’t him, he could never write such short letters.

It was brief. Distant.
"Wrong address, He doesn’t live here anymore. He left… us, everyone."

She pressed the letter to her chest.
The world didn’t stop. It never does.
It moves on, even when you’re standing still.

“I wrote back,” she said quietly. “Finally.”

And tucked her own Letter 28 inside his envelope,
because some endings don’t arrive in time, but deserve to be read anyway,even though too late to change, but not to be felt.








Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

For you, I would

For you, I would save my last piece, let you warm your cold hands in mine. For you, I would wake before the sun, just to send the first good morning sign. For you, I would share the "equal" slice, yet somehow, yours would always be more. For you, I would trade my window seat, so you could watch the sky and soar. For you, I would wish on every 11:11, dig through jokes just to see you smile. For you, I’d let you pick the movie, even if it means sitting through it twice. For you, I’d swap my lavender for black, pause the drop of my favorite song. For you, I’d fill my notebooks with hearts, missing you when days feel long. For you, I’d change all my passwords, reminding to the day you came. For you, I’d learn every rap verse you love, just to sing along and say your name. For you, I would take the longest way, just to "accidentally" pass you by. For you, I’d write a thousand poems, turn whispers into lullabies. For you, I’d fold love into paper, tiny hearts in every sha...
Read more

Fear? Maybe

 I’ve seen people fear many things, heights, depths, attachments, and more. Some let their fears show, wearing them as plainly as the weather, while others hide them behind smiles and laughter. I’m neither of these. I don’t show my fears, nor do I cover them. I lock them away, acting as though they don’t exist.  What I fear the most isn’t being forgotten—it’s not even being considered. While others grieve not being someone’s priority, I wrestle with the emptiness of not even being an option. I don’t matter enough to rank anywhere. I simply exist, unseen and unnoticed, like a shadow fading at dusk. There’s a theory about how men never move on from their first love, forever seeking her reflection in others. The thought amuses me, but it also terrifies me. What if I’m never truly loved by anyone? What if I wait my whole life for something that never comes? Well, I can still wait and fade. And this my fear, will for sure erase me, and I’ll happily be wilted knowing I wasn’t killed...
Read more

"I love black tea"

Once, I came across a question online: why do people dislike bitter things? I’m no philosopher, but I answered, bitterness feels unspoiled, raw, and pure. Black tea, black coffee, dark chocolate, they’re bitter, perhaps because they remain untouched, in their truest form. Yet, people often crave sweetness instead, something softer, easier to love. Perhaps that’s why he left. My love, like black tea, was too pure, too unfiltered, too bitter for him to savor. But I, a devotee of black tea, embraced his love as it was, both the sweetness and the flaws. I took it all in, and perhaps that’s what left me standing here, alone. Still, I wait, sipping my black tea, its bittersweetness my only companion, hoping he’ll return someday.
Read more