I always meant for him to read it. I wrote every word with him in mind—my heart poured out in ink, finally honest after years of silence. I just couldn’t give it to him. Back then, the fear of losing what we had felt heavier than the truth I was carrying. So I tucked the letter away, thinking maybe someday I’d be braver.
Years passed. Life happened. I told myself it didn’t matter anymore. But now he’s holding it—my secret folded in worn paper, my feelings preserved like they’ve been waiting for him all along. Part of me wants to look away, to take it back and pretend it never existed.
But I won’t. Because even though I was too scared to hand it to him back then, I meant every word. And now… I’m just standing here, heart racing, breath caught, waiting to see what he’ll say—if anything at all.
