Letters from deep water

There is a message I have written you six times and deleted six times.

Too small (hey. how are you) or too big (I smelled your kitchen today, in a stranger's coat, and I just stood there).

So here is the version I do not delete.

I still tell your story when it fits. The one we have both told so many times it is ours now, and no one else can hold it right. I still think, most months: they would like this. I remember the week you did not make me ask. You just showed up with the thing I did not know I needed. I do not know if you remember that week. I hope you do.

And I remember why I went quiet. You had your reasons. So did I. Time did what time does. I am not writing to collect. There is no ledger, not back then, not now. I am writing because a thought of you arrived today, warm, uninvited, and I did not want to let it leave without saying so.

If you pick this thread back up, I am here. If you never do, I am still glad I knew you. That part does not need anything back.