I’m a romantic. So yeah… I’ve written more letters than I’ve sent.
Long, spiraling ones with no punctuation. Short ones with just one sentence I couldn’t say out loud. On napkins. On the backs of receipts. In my Notes app at 2:43 AM. In my journal — which, honestly, I dread thinking about anyone reading in the future. What will my relatives make of my late-night musings? Hehehe…
These unsent letters — some start with “I miss you,” and others begin with choice expletives. A few open with “This hurt.” Some never make it past “Dear…” before my mind takes over and rewrites the page before I can finish the thought.
I usually write them when my chest feels tight with unspoken things. When I’m not sure a conversation would fix anything, but I still need to clear the static building in my heart and head. Sometimes I write them because I fear that saying something out loud would make forgiveness feel too fragile — or worse, that naming a thing would make it impossible to ignore, and then we’d have to deal with the truth. And then… the impasse.
Most of these letters stay hidden. Tucked into drawers. Folded into ziplocks like sterilized prayers. Deleted from drafts. Forgotten altogether. A few times, I’ve burned them in the kitchen sink — not out of anger, but as a kind of quiet ritual. A release.
The truth is: some letters aren’t meant to be sent. They’re meant to be written — to make space. To say what needs to be said, not to someone else, but to yourself. That’s the real magic of being a writer. Words spoken in silence have a strange kind of power. They remind me that I haven’t abandoned myself. That I can give my feelings shape without giving them away. That I can honor my voice without needing a response. That I can choose peace over performance.
And sometimes — not often, but sometimes — the letter is a rehearsal. A first draft of the thing I’ll one day have the courage to say out loud. A soft landing before the truth is spoken with full voice.
Maybe that’s what the hidden words are for. Not drama, not even clarity — just honesty. A mirror. A rescue. A reminder of what I needed to hear all along.
So yes, I’ll keep writing them. Not for closure. Not to provoke. But because even when no one else hears it, the act of writing it down means I did. And sometimes, that’s enough.