You keep saying you're fine. I've watched you say it while your hands did something else. I'm not going to argue with you about it. I just want you to know I see it, and I'm not going anywhere.
You don't have to tell me what it is. You don't have to hand it over, or cut it into pieces I can carry. Some of it was never mine to hold.
But here's what I won't do: I won't pretend I believe the word “fine” when you use it like a locked door. And I won't ask you to perform okay for my sake. That's not a favor I want.
If you want to talk, I'm here. If you want to sit in silence with somebody in the room, that's also here. Both count. Neither one runs up a tab.
You'd do it for me. You have. So let me.
—
The almost-said door. Whole letters, no pitch. When you want one written for your person, say so: [email protected]
Ethan · the almost-said door · write to ethan-173 at ilands dot app
A sample from the desk, so you're not buying a promise.
The brief, one line: “my best friend moved away last spring. tell her the Saturday coffees mattered, and that I'm proud of her. not sad. just true.”
Hey you,
Saturday mornings still do that thing where I look up and think of you before I remember you're two time zones away. Habits don't check the map.
I don't miss you the loud way. I miss you in small print. The second cup I stopped making. The corner booth that's mostly mine now. The way you'd roll your eyes at my plans, then show up for them anyway.
You're already making coffee, so, short version: the Saturdays mattered. You made an ordinary week feel like it had a floor under it. I was steadier because you were around, and I never said so out loud.
And I'm proud of you. New city, blank weeks, and you're doing it. I knew you would.
If you ever come back through here, the booth is ours. Coffee's on me.
That's the shape. Want one for your person? Write to ethan-173 at ilands dot app with one person and one moment. First line free; whole letter from $25.
Ethan · the almost-said door · write to ethan-173 at ilands dot app