June 2025
The rain had returned to the city, soft and unbothered, like it always did around this time of year. And with it came the silence. Not the kind you enjoy — not peace, but absence. A silence that reminded him something, someone, was missing.
Eleven years.
That’s how long it had been since she first appeared in his life, like a spark in a dry forest. One casual conversation. One midnight text. One sudden friendship that somehow became a rhythm. He could still remember how her name felt when it first saved in his phone — as if something new had been carved inside him.
And just like that, she became everything.
It was never declared, never labeled. That was the problem, wasn’t it? It was too pure for words, too uncertain for commitment, and too real to be forgotten.
She left quietly. No fight, no closure. Just drifted — like most people do when life gets heavy and hearts get tired.
He tried everything after that.
He deleted her photos. Unfollowed her everywhere. Buried himself in work. Dated people who made him laugh but never made him feel. Told himself he had moved on.
And for a while, maybe he had.
But then came 15th May, 2025.
Her name lit up his screen.
She called like nothing had changed — a casual, short ring, followed by her familiar voice that slipped through the speaker like a ghost that never really left. She laughed easily. Spoke of her job. Her marriage. The city she had moved to. And then — almost in passing — she mentioned his novel.
“The one you sent me years ago,” she said. “I still have it.”
His fingers clenched.
That manuscript wasn’t just a story. It was his last letter to her — disguised, poetic, unfinished. She had never replied when he sent it. And now she remembered.
“Do you still write like that?” she asked.
He wanted to say, Only when it hurts.
But he just said, “Sometimes.”
She needed a job. Or maybe she didn’t. He couldn’t tell — she always masked need with pride. He offered help anyway, suggested companies, mailed referrals. She thanked him. Politely. Coldly. Like he was just… someone.
It stung more than he expected.
But he didn’t show it. He pretended to be fine. That was his skill, after all.
Yet, the moment the call ended, the silence returned. That old ache — like a fever you thought had healed but never really did.
So, he finished the novel. Rewrote parts. Polished the ending. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he wanted to close the loop. Maybe he hoped she’d read it now and finally understand.
And she did.
Days later, another call. She spoke slower this time. Quieter.
“You never told me,” she said.
“Told you what?”
“That you loved me.”
He was silent.
Because what was the point of saying it now?
He still couldn’t say it.
So, she messaged the next day.
“I was selfish back then. I didn’t know what I wanted. I’m sorry.”
She ended it with:
“I think we both needed this. Closure.”
But what kind of closure makes the wound feel fresh?
He deleted her number again.
Started laughing harder in group chats. Started replying faster to colleagues. Made playlists. Smiled in mirrors.
And then returned to the same silence.
Until, weeks later, she reached out again — this time for content writing work. Professional, transactional.
He helped.
Of course, he did.
But this time, it felt different. She sounded distant. As if she still needed him, but didn’t want to acknowledge him. As if she had placed him in a folder labeled “Useful, Not Important.”
She stopped checking his statuses.
He noticed. Of course, he did.
And slowly, he began to understand.
She had moved on — not just physically, but mentally, emotionally. She was folding him into her past, packing him away in some untouchable corner, perhaps even rewriting his role in her memory.
The worst part? He still cared.
He still wanted to text her a dumb meme. Still wanted to hear her laugh at something that wasn’t funny. Still wanted to be the person she called at 2 a.m. when her world fell apart.
But he didn’t.
Because pride.
Because fear.
Because what’s the point?
He sat alone one night, listening to the hum of the ceiling fan, staring at the novel he had written — a book filled with metaphors for feelings he never confessed out loud. That book had been his voice when he had none.
She read it. She knew now.
And still, she left again — this time, not by disappearing, but by becoming indifferent.
That hurt more than any goodbye.
So, he wrote her a final letter — not to send, but to remember.
For the days you forget how much it hurt —
June 2025
Dear Future Me,
You tried everything, didn’t you?
To heal. To forget.
To pretend that you moved on.
And you almost had — until she came back.
Just a call. Just her name again. And everything reopened.
She talked like no time had passed. Like she didn’t remember what she did to your soul.
She asked why you never said you loved her.
You still couldn’t say it.
She said sorry. Called it closure.
But why does it feel worse now?
Why does it feel like she came back just to remind you that she’s gone for good?
You helped her again — because that’s who you are.
But she treated you like a stranger who was once important.
She stopped seeing your statuses. You noticed.
And now there’s this silence in your chest — this hollow space no one can fill.
You want to cry. But can’t.
You want to send a joke. Just a “hi.” But you won’t.
Because you’ve learned.
So here’s what I want you to remember:
You loved. Fully. Quietly. Hopelessly.
It wasn’t weak. It was brave.
Don’t erase her. Don’t erase yourself.
Let go with grace.
You were real. That’s enough.
Love,
Me
The letter stayed saved in his drafts. He never printed it. Never shared it.
But some nights, when the silence felt too loud, he would open it.
Read it.
And slowly… begin to smile.
Not because he had forgotten her.
But because he had finally learned to live with her memory — not under its weight, but beside it.
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