The Seventh Letter

Dear A,

    I don’t know where to begin, only that something inside me needed to write to you tonight. There’s a heaviness in my chest I can’t seem to put down, like a weight I’ve grown used to carrying but never learned to name. I just finished crying again, quietly, thinking of you. And I find myself wondering, as I have so many times before; when will this ache finally loosen its hold on me? But I’ll try, as always, to shape the silence into words.

.

.

.
    Three days ago, my friend told me they were deeply affected by a book I’d recommended. It’s a devastating story, the kind of book that doesn’t just end, but lingers. I once told you about it, too. It mirrors my life so precisely that I’ve always felt as if the author had lived my story and written it under another name. It’s a book about unrequited love. I’m sure you haven’t read it yet. I chose that novel for you not just because it’s a favourite, but because it reads like a mirror held up to my soul. Every page echoes my own quiet grief - my love for you, left unspoken, unreturned. No one ever quite notices this about me; I may seem like someone who wears their heart openly, but the truth is, I reveal myself indirectly. Through the songs I loop on long drives, the films I recommend, the playlists I make and remake, the words I underline in borrowed books. Even the wallpaper on my phone, the colours I choose, the things I collect, they all whisper the story of someone quietly aching. When I share these things with people, I secretly hope they’ll see me tucked between the lines. That they’ll realise the story speaks to me because it is me. When that friend said the book made them feel hollow and heavy, my first instinct was to warn you. To say; be gentle with this one. It doesn’t just wound, it lingers. But it never occurred to me to give that warning before, because for me, that sorrow has always been the water I swim in. I forgot it might drown someone else. Still, I didn’t reach out to you. I fought that impulse with everything in me. I didn’t want to be the person who slips in and out of your life on my own terms. I didn’t want you to feel disrespected or uncertain about my intentions. So, I kept quiet, even though I hope one day you’ll read it. And I hope - truly, deeply - you’ll know that every word on those pages was how I felt for you. How I still feel.

.

.

.
    I use the word 'quiet' too often in these letters. I reach for it like a comfort. It’s how I describe my life, the spaces I move through, the things I love, and it’s the word I most often use for you. Because I love quietness. And that is why I love you. In a world full of noise, you are the silence that brings clarity. People mistake me for someone who belongs in noise, someone who thrives in crowds, who’s effortlessly at ease. But that’s only the mask I wear. The truth is, I crave slow days and soft moments, empty spaces and meaningful ones. When I tell people I long for stillness, they laugh and call me an old soul. But with you, I never had to explain. You just understood. You are the understanding. You are the still water, the deep breath, the hush beneath the chaos. The more I saw you, the more I saw myself. The way we both smiled with that slight, lopsided pull. The way we cared too much, worried too deeply, challenge our parents and laugh at ourselves. The hair that curled ever so slightly back on one side. Our affection for the obscure, the quiet thrill of dry humour, the comfort of privacy. The fact that we both felt like outsiders. It’s not just that we were similar. I think I simply allowed you to see me in ways I’ve never let anyone else. And I allowed it because I never had to perform with you. You made it feel safe to be exactly who I am. Still, maybe it’s not similarity that you’re looking for. Maybe what you needed was contrast. Someone to balance your quiet with brilliance, someone who could stand at the front while you linger softly behind, someone who could hold your hand boldly in public and speak their love with ease. Maybe you were looking not for a mirror, but for the missing piece of your heart. And maybe, in that equation, I was never meant to fit.

.

.

.
    Tonight, the moon hangs exactly as it did the last time I saw you. I wish you knew how much the moon means to me, how it reminds me of you. You, shining gently through my nights, present but distant. You, who brought peace during my heaviest hours, who I could only ever admire from afar. I’m scared to see you again. Because if I do, I’ll make new memories. And I don’t want that. I don’t want more pieces of you scattered across my life. Not because they wouldn’t be beautiful, but because I wouldn’t survive the weight of them. I don’t want more places, more objects, more days etched with you. So I vanished. Not because I stopped loving you, but because I love you too much to keep building memories I can never truly call ours. If somehow, you ever miss me, please look at the moon. Trust me, I always do. That’s where my love goes now - into the night sky, where it can live safely, silently.

.

.

.
    While you're counting down the days to your wedding, I’m counting the days left where I can still allow myself to love you like this. When the number reaches zero, I’ll have to let go. I’ll have to force myself to stop. Because I love you enough to honour the life you’ve chosen, even if it means stepping aside. Even if it breaks me. Still, if the world had been different, if I'd been given the chance, I wouldn’t just buy you flowers, I’d plant them for you. I wouldn’t just take you to dinner, I’d cook for you. I wouldn’t just send you gifts, I’d carve them from my own hands. I wouldn’t just listen, I’d soothe your tired bones with quiet care. I wouldn’t just send you texts, I’d write you letters, long and slow. I wouldn’t just take pictures of you, I’d paint you a thousand times. I’d write you songs. You’d be my muse. But I don’t have that right. So I stall. I disappear. I try not to give myself hope.

.

.

.
    An old man told me today to take a leap of faith and be confident. Maybe that was a sign from God - a quiet nudge to move on. And I will, eventually. But until then, allow me, just for a little while longer, to fall in love with you each day that remains before your wedding.

Yours,
H