The Tenth Letter

Dear A,

    I’ve been wondering how you’ve been lately, especially now that the days shift so abruptly from sun to storm and sometimes, in those sudden turns of weather, I find myself thinking of you without meaning to, as though your presence lingers in the air, woven into the wind and the smell of wet soil. I hope you’ve been well and I hope your body has been kind to you. I’d like to imagine you as someone who doesn’t fall sick easily, someone resilient, whose energy stays bright through seasons, but if you happen to be like me - a little unlucky when the temperature swings too fast - then I hope you’re getting the rest you need and the comfort you deserve.

    Lately, it’s been difficult to care for the plants. I’ve begun to wonder if maybe I really am the plant killer you once teasingly called me. Though, to be fair, even my father’s plants are wilting under this heat so perhaps I’m not entirely to blame. I did my best to rearrange them, moving each one out of the reach of the harsh evening sun, trying to shield them from burning and as I do, I think about the way our friendship first bloomed through these fragile greens. Neither of us were particularly good at keeping them alive and yet we tried anyway. I think of that often. You were better at it than I ever was. Your plants always seemed to last just a little longer, hold on just a little more, and even though I know most things I tend to will eventually wither, I still keep trying, still water them gently, still turn them toward the light, as if care alone might be enough to keep something from fading.

    I wonder how the wedding preparations are going. I imagine the small details must be slowly falling into place now. Sometimes I find myself wondering what kind of dress you’ll wear. I’m sure it’ll suit you, no matter what it is. You’ve always had that way of making anything feel like it belonged to you all along. I suppose wondering is all I can do. Despite the ache I carry for what your big day means, all I have to offer is my support, because isn’t that what a friend should give?

    Every time I write to you here, I wonder if there’s even the smallest chance you might one day stumble across my words. Part of me wants you to know how deeply I feel, while another part stays afraid of what might happen if I ever crossed a line I can’t take back. Writing with anonymity means I have to use careful terms, speaking without names or pronouns, guarding our identities like secrets that can’t be spoken aloud. But sometimes, in the middle of writing, I feel this urge to call out your name - the one I love to say, the one that sits so naturally on my tongue, like it was always meant to be spoken by me. There’s something about saying your name that feels so intimate, so direct, like I’m not just writing about you but writing to you, as if I were sitting across from you again, and I could speak to you without holding anything back.

    And so, maybe from now on, I’ll call you Lily, just here, just for me. It shortens your name, but somehow it fits, soft and full of grace. Lily, like the flower you remind me of; gentle in how you’ve always treated me, radiant in how you’ve moved through my life. Maybe it’s foolish, maybe even a little selfish, but calling you by this name makes these letters feel more personal, like I’ve left a small, invisible doorway open between us.

    Lily, I know my words come in pieces lately. I don’t plan what to say. I just write as the thoughts come, scattered and aching like everything inside me is trying to find its way out before it disappears again. And so I’ll tell you about small things, like the way my stray friend - my little fur-covered troublemaker friend, has been more playful these days. Maybe she notices I’ve been around more, now that I’ve distanced myself from almost everyone. Only six people remain in my orbit. I know social connection matters, but when the noise becomes too much, I find my way back to the cat. She’s become bolder, letting me rub her stomach, sometimes nipping at my hands or demanding I chase her around the yard. I always do, even if it leaves me breathless. You once said I was getting old, and maybe you were right. My breath grows shorter, my grey hairs multiply and though you once said you liked salt-and-pepper hair, I think mine is arriving ahead of schedule. I don’t know if I’m aging too fast or just living too hard.

    The other night I lay down on the floor of my house in the dark. I don’t know if I needed space to think or if I just needed to collapse for a while. My thoughts didn’t follow any pattern. I’ve lost the rhythm of systematic thinking. I’ve hit the bottom again, a place I know too well and this time I’m not fighting to climb out. For now, I just want to stay here - unmoving, unseen. My codes aren’t working. My research has halted. My students’ grades keep slipping and even though I know the fault isn’t all mine, I still wonder if I’m failing them, if I’m failing at all of it. I wonder if I’ll ever have the chance to start over somewhere far from here. But what do I really have to offer?

    Lately I’ve been thinking about heartbreak. Not in the dramatic way love songs speak of it but in the slow unraveling of something you never even had the chance to hold. I’ve never experienced a real breakup and yet I keep asking myself; is this what one feels like? Is it still called heartbreak when no relationship existed in the first place, just feelings that bloomed in silence and never found a place to land? I asked around, trying to understand. Some said they never really healed. Some said they moved on by meeting someone new, some buried their pain in distractions, others drowned in sadness for a while and then came back lighter. I’ve met new people too, friends, not lovers, trying to keep myself moving. But it all feels too fast, like I’m being dragged forward before I’m ready. And every time I try, the same thought returns; Lily would take this slower and let it unfold naturally.

    The other night, I dreamed that your wedding invitation arrived at my door. I held it as if it were something breakable, something sacred and I read your name next to his, printed so neatly and delicately on the card. It looked exactly how I imagined it would; simple, elegant, effortlessly yours. I stood there, frozen, unable to feel anything specific, as if my body had turned to mist. And then I woke up. Just like that. It wasn’t real, only a dream, and still, I hadn’t been breathing. That was the second time this week I woke up that way. My sleep apnea has returned. It first happened during my final year of undergrad. The doctor said it didn’t fit, my body wasn’t the type, my BMI was fine maybe it was stress. I accepted that back then, worn out by assignments and sleepless nights, carrying a tiredness I couldn’t quite name. And now, as that same heaviness returns, I tell myself it’s the same; that I’m just tired from studying and I want to believe that’s all it is. 

    You’ve never appeared in my dreams, not once, even now. Only your mail arrived, not you. And it makes me wonder. With others I once liked, their faces would visit me at night, uninvited but constant. But with you, even my dreams seem to know they cannot reach you. Maybe it’s mercy, a soft kindness from somewhere above to help me let go. Or maybe you’re so deeply stitched into my waking world that you no longer need to appear at night.

    This morning, I saw a message from my brother: I understand what you feel. For a moment, I thought he was referring to the heartbreak I’d hinted at. But when I opened our chat, I remembered I had told him something completely unrelated - something silly about a kitten’s ear at a diner and how I wanted to bite it out of affection. So, his message was just a reply to that. It made me laugh, a little hollow and a little sad. I’ve always been scared to be vulnerable about love in front of my siblings. I don’t want to burden them. My sister keeps waiting for the day I finally place a real girlfriend’s polaroid photo behind my phone case instead of the fake one I keep now. I do have a photo of you, just one - taken at your birthday celebration exactly four months ago but I don’t carry it with me. Instead, it rests inside my favorite book, marking the pages of a story about unrequited love. Fitting, isn’t it? A novel full of sorrow and yearning, held open by a memory of someone who cannot return what I feel.

    When my chest feels too heavy, I walk to the park. The other day it rained and the park was empty, just the way I needed it to be. I brought the same umbrella we once shared during that short walk together and as I walked beneath it, I imagined we were side by side again, stepping through puddles, trading glances. I wish I could live that moment again. Just once more. But we don’t always get the things we want.

Yours,
H