The Eight Letter

Dear A,

    I made a quiet vow to myself - to return to our place every fourth of the month. You mentioned it once, casually, with a small smile, telling me to remember our friendship anniversary. Maybe you didn’t mean for me to take it seriously. Maybe it was just one of those things you say and forget. But I didn’t forget. I never do. Since then, I’ve carried that date like a soft ritual, something small and sacred to honour what we once shared. And though I now go alone, I still go. Because the memory of you still lives there, stitched into the stillness of the air, resting beneath that same old tree in the park where we first met. Sitting in the grass, laughing at nothing, unaware of what the future would bring. 

    I won’t lie, I cry every time. Even before I reach the spot, my body starts remembering. My chest tightens, breath growing shorter with each step, like I’m slowly walking into a memory I can’t undo. My jaw clenches as if it could hold back the flood but my eyes always betray me. The moment I step into the park, it’s as if time bends and suddenly I’m back there with you, only this time you’re missing. And yet, I keep going. Because even in sorrow, the place brings me a kind of comfort I can’t find anywhere else. It’s the one corner of the world I’ve come to call ours. Even if the only presence that meets me now is silence. Strange how even silence can feel familiar when it's tied to someone you love. 

    I met a stray dog there. I named him Pasty. People tend to avoid him. Understandable, I suppose. But I didn’t. There was something in his eyes that reminded me of myself. Alone, misunderstood, longing for quiet company. We didn’t need to speak, he and I. He just sat beside me, like he knew I needed someone who wouldn’t ask questions, someone who wouldn’t demand words. And in that stillness, I imagined he understood. That he, too, was trying to heal from something wordless. If things ever become easier, if I ever grow strong enough to hold your absence without breaking, maybe we could go to that park together again. Maybe you could meet Pasty. But until then, it’s just him and me. Two quiet souls waiting for something that may never return.

    I think back to how gently our friendship bloomed. It took us a year before we even exchanged numbers - a slow unfolding, like pages of a book turning softly in a quiet room. And I loved that pace. There was no rush, no pressure. Just two people learning each other’s rhythm without expectation. You never demanded space in my life; you simply made room for yourself without me noticing. And I did the same in yours. I still remember how you always asked me to let you know when I’d reached home safely. I never forgot to do it. Not because it was a habit but because it felt like being cared for in a way I wasn’t used to. 

    Most people, when I drop them off, head straight inside without looking back. The moment their feet touch the ground, it’s goodbye. But with you...it was different. You would stay. You’d linger at the door, eyes gently following me until I reached my car. And even then, you wouldn’t turn away. You’d wait, really wait, until I drove off, until my car disappeared completely from your sight. And I can’t tell you how deeply that stayed with me. That someone would wait like that. I remember catching a glimpse of you in my rearview mirror and without thinking, I waved. You waved too, and in that quiet exchange, I felt something so rare - to be seen, to be cherished in that small, steady way. It was never grand but it was real. And I thanked the universe in that moment for letting me know what that kind of gentleness felt like. 

    It’s not that the others in my life were unkind. But no one has ever been as gentle as you. The way you move through the world, softly, carefully like you don’t want to disturb its balance, aligns with the rhythm of how I love. I, too, take my time with things. I don’t rush. I like to let days settle naturally like dust in a sunlit room. So when someone I barely know suddenly confesses their feelings to me, I feel... displaced. Not flattered, just burdened. As though they’ve skipped chapters in a book I’m still trying to read slowly. It’s not their fault. But in that moment, I find myself wondering, again and again, why can’t there be more people like you? 

    I know it’s not about how long you’ve known someone. You could spend years with a person and still never know how they think and you could meet someone twice and already understand how their heart beats. For me, it’s about how conversations unfold. It’s the pauses, the laughter, the unspoken agreements that tell you this person sees the world the way you do. And with you, it always felt like that. Like we were reading from the same script - one that no one else could see. I tried putting up small walls. I thought the Polaroid at the back of my phone - of someone else, just a harmless decoy - would protect me from questions and confessions. But it didn’t. And maybe it’s because the truth is, I don’t want protection. I just want someone who understands me the way you did. Or rather, the way you still do, without even trying.

    I met a friend recently. They’d just returned from Denmark and had only three weeks here. We met briefly for lunch, then went grocery shopping. Nothing fancy, just something to help them restock their fridge. But as we pushed the cart through the aisles, I kept thinking about you. Imagining what it would be like to do something that simple, that ordinary, with you. Grocery shopping has always been a dream date for me. I’ve told my friend this, and they’ve laughed, saying that all my dream dates belong to people already in love. And maybe they’re right. All the dates I long for are quiet, intimate things; cooking dinner together, stargazing in silence, building a pillow fort and watching movies, ice cream runs, convenience store walks at midnight. Some might call them boring. But I’ve come to realize, I was never searching for excitement but only someone to be quietly boring with. And somehow, I always imagined you in those moments. Because whenever we met, we never needed much. Just a bench, a conversation and the sky above us. That was enough.

    I know this letter strays in many directions. There’s no clean thread. Just a scattering of thoughts, like dried petals pressed between pages. But if, by some chance, you ever find yourself reading this, I want you to know that I’ve always quietly hoped for a letter from you. I check the mailbox more than I should, half-hoping your words might find their way to me. You already have my address and my email too. Please don’t ever think you’d be crossing a line. With me, you never could. In fact, I’d welcome it like sunlight on a day that’s been grey too long. If one day the silence feels too heavy, or the waiting too long - then come. Just come by. Even if it’s after a long day at work, even if all you have are small, uneventful thoughts to share. I’d still want to hear them. If you ever feel unsure who to turn to, come to me. You don’t need permission. You don’t need a reason. I’ll be here, always, with the door open and a heart that never stopped making room for you.

Take care,

H