He Letters We Never Sent

Anna kept a box under her bed. Inside were a hundred letters each one written for Liam, and none of them ever sent. Some were written on tear stained pages at midnight; others were scribbled on coffee-stained napkins when memories ambushed her in daylight. Every letter began differently, but every one ended the same way: *Love, always Anna.*

She met Liam seven years ago, in a summer so bright it still hurt to think about. They were interns at the same publishing house, two dreamers who lived on instant noodles and the scent of new books. He’d laughed at her clumsy jokes, shared playlists with her, read her unfinished stories. He was the first person to tell her, “Your words feel alive.” And she had believed him.

When he left for another city, they promised to stay in touch. They wrote emails, long at first, then shorter, then none. Life slipped between their words the kind of distance that grows quietly until it becomes permanent. Yet Anna never stopped writing. Not to him, exactly, but for him. Every emotion she couldn’t say out loud became ink on paper.

There was one letter, though, that mattered more than the rest. Dated October 14th the day he got married. It began like the others: *Dear Liam…*
She told him she was happy for him. That she was proud. That she hoped his wife would love him the way she never had the courage to. But between the lines, in the spaces where words refused to fit, the truth trembled: *I never stopped loving you.*

She folded it carefully, sealed it, and tucked it under the others. Then she stopped writing altogether.

Years passed. Anna became an editor, someone who helped others find the right words while losing her own. Her life was neat, organized, and quiet until one rainy afternoon, she got a package at work. No return address. Inside was a worn out notebook, the same kind she used years ago. Her name was written across the cover in a handwriting she could never mistake.

Inside, a single note:

*“Dear Anna,
I found your letters. I don’t know how to explain, but I think I was meant to.
You once said our stories end where we stop writing.
So, I’m writing to you now.
Liam.”*

She froze. Her heart, long trained to stay still, began to remember what it meant to race. The next page was blank. The next after that too. A space waiting to be filled.

That night, she sat at her desk with trembling hands and began to write again.

*Dear Liam,
Maybe our words never got lost. Maybe they were just waiting to find their way back.
Love, always Anna.*

When she finished, she didn’t seal the envelope. She left it open, as if this time, the wind itself might carry it to where it belonged.

The box under her bed was gone. Only the empty space remained, soft with dust, but light somehow. As though by writing again, she had finally set something free the letters, the years, and the parts of herself that had been waiting to be read.

And somewhere, miles away, a man looked out a window into the same rain, feeling a heartbeat he couldn’t explain.

The story was still unfinished.
But maybe, at last, it had begun again.