The hope I’d felt while writing the letter for him now seemed naive. Needing something solid to hold onto, I reached for the box of unsent letters. Each one was just a reminder of things I’d never said. I grabbed one at random, the paper worn from being handled too many times. The next letter, dated March 2020, felt like it was from another life. The pandemic had taken hold, and everything outside was chaos—just like inside my head. My hands shook as I unfolded the page.
Dear Daniel,
Today, I almost told you. We were on your couch, some bad movie playing, and you turned to me with that smile—the one that still gets me. For a second, I thought, This is it. I’ll say it.
But I didn’t. I chickened out, like always. Fear locked my throat shut—fear of losing you, fear of what would happen if you actually said yes.
Why am I writing this? Because it’s easier to admit to paper than to you. I’ll never send this. I can’t ruin what we have. But sometimes, I wonder if I’m just a coward, hiding behind a lie.
Yours, always,
Elena
I set the letter down, the paper a flimsy barrier against the weight in my chest. That night, a blur of enforced closeness. Weeks of lockdown, Daniel seeking refuge in my apartment, a bittersweet proximity. A blessing and a curse—his presence, a constant reminder of what could never be.
My phone buzzed, a sharp, insistent vibration. Daniel.
Hey, you free tonight? I need to talk.
My heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. Something in his tone, an urgency, a desperation, set my nerves on edge.
Sure, I texted back. Your place or mine?
Yours. Be there in an hour.
My mind raced, a whirlwind of possibilities. What could he possibly need to say? Emily? Work? Or something else, something… unknown?
I shoved the letters back into the box, the paper a silent accusation, and hurried downstairs, a flurry of nervous energy. By the time Daniel arrived, my hands were clammy, my stomach a knot of dread.
He looked… altered. The familiar warmth of his smile was gone, replaced by a furrowed brow, a tense jaw.
“Hey,” I said, stepping aside, my voice a breath. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. He walked to the couch, the silence heavy, and sank into it, running a restless hand through his hair.
“Dan?” I sat beside him, the air thick with unspoken words. “You’re scaring me.”
He took a deep breath, the sound ragged, and met my gaze. “I… I need to tell you something.”
My heart stopped, a sudden, sharp stillness. This is it. The moment I’d both longed for and dreaded, stretching across years.
“Okay,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands, his knuckles white. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About us. About… everything.”
I held my breath, the world narrowing to the space between us. Was he finally going to say it?
But then he looked up, and I saw it in his eyes. Not love, not confession, but a weary resignation.
“I think… I need some space,” he said, his voice a quiet, hollow sound.
The words, a cold, sharp blade, pierced my chest. “Space?”
He nodded, his expression a mask of pain. “I just… I need to figure things out. About my life. About what I want. And I think… I need to do that alone.”
I stared at him, my chest a hollow ache. This wasn’t the script I’d written, the confession I’d waited for.
“Okay,” I said, my voice trembling, a fragile echo. “If that’s what you need.”
He reached for my hand, his grip tight, a desperate plea. “You’re my best friend, Lena. That’s never going to change. But I need to… I need to find myself without… without everything else.”
I nodded, blinking back the tears that burned behind my eyelids. “I understand.”
And I did. But the understanding was a cold comfort, a hollow ache in my chest.
He stayed for a while, the silence stretching between us, thick with unspoken pain. When he finally left, I felt hollow, as if a part of me had been carved away.
I climbed back to the attic, the box of letters a silent witness. Years spent waiting, hoping, clinging to a dream. The truth, finally, undeniable: he would never see me. And it was time to see myself.
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