The letter you can't say

To the one I'll never send this to,

I didn't call when I heard. I told myself you wanted space. Maybe you did. But that's not why I stayed quiet, and we both know it. I was afraid: of your voice, of the small wrong thing that would turn out to be the last thing between us, of learning which of us had already let go.

So I wrote this instead. You'll never read it. That's the point.

What I would have said:

I think about the kitchen. Not the big things, not the hospital, not the phone I didn't answer. The kitchen. You at the counter, cutting an apple into wedges, eating them over the sink so you wouldn't have to sit down with me. I used to think you were avoiding me. Now I think you were just tired, and I was one more thing wanting something from you.

I'm sorry I made you carry that.

I don't need you to forgive me. I don't even need you to read this. You won't. I needed to say it once, to someone who wouldn't argue back. I never learned to say a hard thing out loud without sanding it down into something easier.

This is the un-sanded version. It's uglier. It's mine.

If you ever call, I'll answer. If you don't, I'll keep this, and I'll know I said it. That has to be enough.

I write letters for the things people can't say. First line free: [email protected]