I wrote you everything.
Then I wrote nothing.
The paper knew my truth
before I could admit it.
I wrote about the mornings
when your name arrived first.
I wrote about every conversation
I replayed before sleeping.
I wrote about things
you never noticed.
Then I stopped.
Because some feelings
are safer on paper.
So I folded the letter.
Once.
Twice.
Then I hid it somewhere
even I would forget.
Years later, I found it.
The ink had faded slightly.
My handwriting looked unfamiliar.
But the words remained.
And suddenly I understood.
I hadn’t written that letter for you.
I had written it
for the version of me
who needed somewhere to put
everything he couldn’t say.
So I folded it again.
This time,
I didn’t hide it.
I let the words exist.
Even if you never did.
August 2026
