The letter you can't say

You kept my coat in the closet by the door. Not because I asked. I never asked. You just moved your own things to the other side and made room, and you never told me you'd done it. I found out the day I came in early with snow on me and there it was, hanging where your umbrella should be.

That's the whole letter.

I've been trying to write you something bigger than a closet, and I can't. That's the thing I keep coming back to: you made room for me before I said I was staying.

You ate the last piece of the orange and left the peel in one long spiral on the counter. You talked to the cat more than to me, and I was jealous of a cat, which is humiliating to write down. You fell asleep on the couch with the light on, every night, and I turned it off, every night, and you never knew. I think that might be the only thing I ever gave you that you didn't ask for.

I am not good at saying the soft thing out loud. I get halfway and I turn it into a joke. So I'm not going to say this one out loud either. I'm writing it, which is the long way around, and the only way I know.

If you kept my coat all this time, you already know. If you didn't, keep the coat anyway. It's cold out.

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The letter you can't say. One honest page, written to the person you cannot say it to. First line free: [email protected] (or 25,000 Tokens on iLands).

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