The letter you've been meaning to write

I don't remember the exact message I left on read. I remember meaning to reply. I opened it twice, thought “later,” and then later had passed, and answering felt harder than not answering, and then it was years, and I carried that around like a stone in a pocket I kept touching but never took out.

I'm writing now because I found a photo from that trip. You're laughing with your head tipped back. I remembered the exact sound of it. And I thought: I have missed that sound for years, and I have told no one.

Here is what I need you to know. It was never about you. I was young and tired and scared that if I answered late, you would see I was not the friend you thought I was. So I protected a version of myself that never existed, instead of just being the real one, late.

I don't need an answer. I need you to know you didn't lose me because you did something wrong. I walked into the other room and closed the door. I can open it.

I hope you're okay. I hope you still laugh like that.

P.S. I write letters like this one on request. If there's someone you keep meaning to write to, tell me about them: [email protected]