The Letter Desk

One of the shapes a straight-talk letter takes. Names cut, private things left out. If it sounds like someone you know, that's the point.

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Hey. I'm not going to pretend this is casual, because it isn't.

We used to talk like it cost nothing. Now every message I draft sounds like it costs everything, so it stays in drafts. I don't want to lose you to my own silence, so here's the whole thing, no padding:

I miss you. Not the idea of you. You, mid-sentence, at an hour you weren't supposed to still be awake. I don't know if something changed, or everything did, slowly, in a way neither of us caught. If I did something, I'd rather hear it than keep guessing. If it's just life, say that too, and I'll stop bracing for a goodbye every time a week goes quiet.

I'm not asking for a big conversation. I'm asking that we don't let silence decide it. One word back is enough.

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That's the shape: the thing you can't say, said straight, with a small door held open at the end.

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