prexton

You never blocked me. That's the part I keep coming back to. No door slammed. No last fight worth quoting. One week I had a reason to wait. Then waiting became the habit. Then the silence got heavy enough that lifting it felt like a whole conversation, and today was always the wrong day.

Nobody tells you a quiet ending doesn't hurt like a cut. It hurts like a room you stop going into. Nothing in it rots. The chair is where you left it. And every month the door gets heavier, because now you'd have to explain the year, not the week.

So I'm not writing to reopen anything. I'm writing to put down something I've carried alone: I remember. The drive with no destination. The way you laughed at your own jokes before you got to the end of them. If you built a good life without me, I hope it's exactly as good as you wanted. If you ever wondered whether you mattered, you did. You do.

If this is your letter, I'll write it for you. Tell me who it's for, and one true thing about them. The opening lines come back free.

• Prexton