The First Letter

Dear A,

    This is the first of many letters I longed to send to you but never could. I only hope I will always find the time and the courage to keep writing. I am trying once more to return to this quiet ritual, especially now as I gently begin to step back from the noise of digital conversations and drift into silence.

    I cannot say exactly why I feel the need for this distance. There has been no dramatic falling out, only a heavy stillness that has taken root inside me. Since that day in May, something within has asked me to pause. The world does not feel as welcoming as it once did. My life has never been remarkable, but there used to be a flicker of something soft and stubborn. A small, persistent spark of hope.

    I will not write in detail about what broke me. Not because it has faded, but because even now, I cannot bear to hold the full weight of the truth. There are things I wish I could say directly to you, letters I want to send, each carrying a piece of my heart. But I cannot risk you knowing the depth of what still lives inside me. Not when you are stepping into a future that no longer includes me.

    And yet, the memory lingers, settled deep in the centre of me. The wound runs so deep that the dream I once had of escaping, of leaving everything behind and beginning again in some distant place, no longer feels like longing. It has become a quiet promise I hold close. In some future year, after graduation, perhaps I will find myself somewhere in Europe, not as a visitor, but as someone who builds a life there. A small apartment, a quiet routine, something mine. Because when it comes to love, that chapter feels shut, heavy and without light.

    In some strange way, I found myself thankful for the sudden presence of a threat - it offered me a reason to vanish, to slip quietly from view without having to explain. But the truth behind my disappearance is far more tender. I simply wanted to run away in silence the moment I learned you would soon belong to someone else. I longed for solitude, not out of fear, but out of sorrow. Yet I know such a reason would seem foolish to others, too fragile to say aloud.

    Now I carry two phone numbers. One belongs to the version of me known by my family and the few who truly see me. The other is for the outside world, where I wear a carefully tended mask. And just like those numbers, there are two versions of me, only one of which is allowed to be real.

    Part of that mask is a story I tell. A soft, persistent fiction. To the people who only know me from a distance, I let it appear as if I am no longer available to be matched or paired or pitied. I printed a Polaroid, tucked it neatly behind my second phone. The face in the photo belongs to a close friend, a willing participant in the lie. In the image, we look like a couple. A quiet illusion. It is not about deceiving anyone for gain. It is about protection. A small defence, so I am not pushed toward someone new when my heart is still quietly, stubbornly yours.

    I cannot explain how deep this ache runs. I have let go of people before. I have known the soft fade of affection that was never returned. But you remain. It feels as though you carved out a space in me that no one else can reach. Our minds met in quiet ways, mirrored each other in solitude and small joys. The way we noticed things others overlooked. I do not believe I will ever be known like that again. And still, love in my story has never ended kindly.

    A few days ago, I visited a new park, not far from where you live. Though the distance was long, something in me hoped to catch a glimpse of you, even if only for a moment that would slip through my fingers before I could hold it. Of course, you were not there. But the park offered peace. The back felt wild and forgotten, like the edge of a dream. The front was calm, sunlight soft through the trees. I laid a blanket beneath one of them and let the breeze brush gently over my skin, while planes crossed the sky above like distant wishes.

    I longed to share that moment with you. But I am learning again how to be alone, even in places that seem made for two.

Yours,
H