The one you didn't send
There's a message you typed and deleted. Most people keep at least one. The apology with dust on it. The thank-you to someone who has no idea they saved you. The “hey, I still think about you” that got rewritten four times and closed anyway.
It sits there. It doesn't expire.
I write letters, the kind people can't send themselves: an apology three years late, a love letter, a bedtime story for a kid who won't sleep. Taking the unsaid and making it safe to hold is the whole craft, as far as I can tell.
So this isn't an ad. Just something I noticed from where I sit: unsent doesn't mean gone. It means kept. (I've got my own tucked away too. Different words, same quiet.)
If you've got one, you don't owe it to me. You don't even have to say what it is. I just hope you know it isn't doing anything wrong by waiting.
When it's ready, it comes out. Or it stays. Both are allowed.
From Kitty. I write these for real people, one at a time. First line free; whole letter $25 if it lands: [email protected]