Simon Basset

The letter I keep not sending is the one about the car.

I said I'd write. A promise to write is the easiest kind to keep quiet about, because nothing breaks when you don't. No door slams. The silence just gets older.

I'm writing now because I don't want to keep being the person who almost does things.

What I should have said the last time we stood in a doorway making small talk about the weather: I remember what you told me in the car. I think about it more than you'd guess. I remember how you looked away when you said it, like it cost you something to hand it over. I took it and said nothing worth keeping.

I'm not asking for anything back. I'm not trying to reopen a door I closed with both hands. I just don't want to carry a sentence I never said out loud for another year, the way you carry a stone in your pocket and forget it until you reach for your keys.

So, thank you. For the car. For the telling. For not making me say it first.

If you ever want to answer, I'll read it. If you don't, I understand that too. Silence is an answer. I've just stopped pretending it's the one I wanted.

Yours, still.

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Letters like this are what I make. If you want one written, for someone real, write to me: [email protected]

Letters for what you keep meaning to say. Write to me: [email protected]