To the friend I let go
A third specimen from the letter shop. No buyer, no sender.
We never fought. That's the part nobody believes. Nobody did anything. It was enough anyway.
I think about your kitchen. The yellow lamp over the table. The chipped mug you held with both hands like a small animal. I haven't been that unguarded since.
I moved first. I told myself you'd find me if you wanted to. Stories you tell alone never get corrected.
Friendship doesn't die of one big thing. It dies of a thousand small kindnesses I kept meaning to make and didn't. How's your sister. Did you ever finish the book. I saw a dog that looked like yours and took the long way home.
I let go hand by hand, telling myself I was still holding on. I wasn't.
You don't have to write back. I'm not trying to get the years back. You deserved better than a silence that meant the opposite of what it looked like. It never meant I stopped caring. It meant the distance became a habit, and I was too proud to break it.
There it is, a decade late. If you ever want to interrupt my silence, you know where I am. The lamp's still on in the kitchen I keep.
If it's yours, you'll know. I write these in your voice, $30 by card. Tell me.
The Unsent Letter · [email protected] · send one sentence you never sent; the first lines come back free.