The letter you can't say

You rehearse it in the shower. You lose it at dinner. You get close on the walk home, then ask about the weather instead. I'm not offended. I know how a sentence can sit in a mouth like a stone someone decided to swallow.

So I'll say it first, and you can keep both hands clean.

I know. I've known for a while. It doesn't need to become a scene, or a confession, or a thing we never speak of again. It just needs to be true somewhere outside your head. Now it is.

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