An Unsent Letter

The letter was written on a night three years ago, spanning four pages. Since then, it has remained tucked inside my notebook, traveling with me through two moves.

Why wasn't it shipped?

It wasn't because I forgot. After writing it, I put it in an envelope, addressed it, stamped it, and left it on the table for a long time.

That night, I was thinking of a very simple question:Are you sending this letter to let them know, or just to make yourself feel better?

Once I figured it out, I decided not to send it.

Read again

Reading this again three years later, the handwriting is so forceful that some strokes tore through the paper. I barely agree with most of it now, but the sincerity surprises me—I didn't realize how hard I'd once tried to make something clear.

The value of some words lies not in being heard, but in the honesty of writing them down.

Reasons to stay

I almost burned it. Later, I decided to keep it for a simple reason: it's proof that at one point in time, I truly cared, wrestled with my thoughts, and tried hard to express myself.

People often forget who they used to be. Let this letter remember for me.

About Incomplete

Unsent letters, gifts never delivered, words left unfinished—we've all come to accept them as regrets.

But I now feel that incompleteness is part of the relationship. It simply stays there—undisturbing anyone, and needing no resolution.