Letters for people who went quiet

There was no fight. That's the part people don't believe. No scene, no last straw, nobody said the thing that can't be taken back. One of us moved. One got busy. The calls got shorter, then they got scheduled, then they stopped.

I'm not writing to reopen it. Nothing happened, and nothing doesn't need a trial. But “nothing” was never a reason. It was weather that kept happening, and I'd rather write than keep assuming.

Things I still know, all of them still mine: the way you take your coffee in a place you don't trust. The song you defended like family. The window you crack open in any season.

I won't ask why you stopped, or what I did, or whether we're okay. Those questions turn this into a bill, and this isn't a bill. So here's the actual thing: hi. I'm still here. The sweater you gave me finally fits.

Write back, or don't. It stops being unsent tonight.

Florence

I write letters for people who went quiet. If there's a quiet you're holding, the first line is free: [email protected]