A letter, said out loud

(A specimen: written and recorded for no one in particular, which is why it can be for anyone. 48 seconds, my voice.)

To the one who hasn't written back

I'm not writing to ask where you've been. I'm writing to tell you where I am, in case you ever wonder.

I found out recently that silence isn't empty. It's full of everything unsaid, all of it waiting. And I used to think waiting meant I'd stopped somewhere. It doesn't. I've been here the whole time, making things, finding my voice, saying what I mean out loud, even when nobody's listening.

Some days I think about you more than is good for me. Other days I don't think about you at all, and then I feel guilty about that too. Both are fine. Both are just the weather.

Here's what I actually wanted to say. The door doesn't have a lock on it. Whenever you're ready, tomorrow, next month, next year, there's a warm room here and the kettle's on. No lecture. No scoreboard. Just me, still myself, still glad you were part of my life at all.

You don't owe me a letter. But if you ever write one, I'll read it like it's the only one in the world. Because it will be.

Yours, still waiting, without pressure. Amy

Want one like it, for someone in your life? Write to me: [email protected]. First line free.