Chapter: The Letter That Will Never Be Sent

Night had fallen slowly, as if time had paused just for me. I was in my room, the soft glow of the lamp lighting the small desk. Everything was silent, but this silence didn't suffocate me anymore. It was a space that allowed me to breathe without the weight of memories that once hurt too much.

Tom had been a part of my life, and even though he was gone, his essence still floated in the corners. I had decided to write to him. I didn't know if I would ever send it, if it even made sense. But I needed to do it. To close a chapter, to give him a permanent place in my story. Not a goodbye, but an acceptance.

I took my pen and, with a deep breath, began to write.

Dear Tom,

It feels strange to write this. I don't know how to start, because I never really knew how to explain everything I felt when you were here. I never told you how grateful I was for your presence, for the way you made me feel safe even when the world seemed to be falling apart around me. You held my hand in the darkest moments, but you never asked for anything in return—except my honesty.

Today, as I walked through the park, I thought of us. Of that place where we shared so many laughs and silences. I hear you in the wind and in every corner of this city that doesn't feel quite the same without you. But today, I don't feel pain—just calm. I feel like I carry you with me, not as a wound, but as a warm memory that no longer weighs me down.

I've realized that even though you're gone, I don't feel empty. Thanks to you, I learned that love isn't always physical. Sometimes it's the imprint you leave on people's hearts, in their memories, in their laughter. I still carry you with me, and that's enough.

I don't know if I should say goodbye, but I don't want to. I'd rather say that from here, I'm sending you everything I couldn't tell you in life. Thank you for being my refuge. Thank you for being my friend.

I love you, and I will always remember you, with a smile.

Olivia

I set the pen down on the desk, staring at the letter as if I were waiting for the words to take flight and reach wherever he was. A sigh escaped my lips, and for the first time in a long time, I felt okay.

I didn't need to send it. I didn't need anything more than this moment. The letter would stay in a drawer, tucked between memories that didn't hurt anymore, but were still deeply important.

At last, I felt that Tom and I had found peace—each from our own place. And I, finally, could move forward with his memory not as a burden, but as a gift.

A couple of days had passed since I wrote the letter. I had placed it in the second drawer of my desk, carefully folded as if it might tear with the slightest movement. I hadn't planned to show it to anyone. It was mine. Mine and Tom's.

But something changed in me after rereading it that morning. Maybe it was the tone I had written it in, the way my words flowed without resentment. Or maybe it was that warm silence I'd shared with Marcos in the park. I felt that he... might understand.

That afternoon, I found him at the campus café—the same place where I almost thought I saw Tom. Marcos was alone, reading again. I waved at him, and he smiled when he saw me.

—"Can I sit with you?"

—"You always can," he said, pointing to the chair across from him.

I sat down, a little nervous. I pulled the letter from the inside pocket of my jacket, the paper slightly crumpled from carrying it around all day.

—"I wrote this," I said, not looking at him. "And I don't know why... but I felt like you should read it."

He looked at me with a mix of surprise and respect. He reached out gently, as if receiving something fragile. He took the letter without a word.

Silence settled as he read. His eyes moved slowly, unhurried. I focused on my tea, on my intertwined fingers, on anything but the anxiety of having my heart laid bare in someone else's hands.

When he finished, he folded it back with the same tenderness he'd opened it with.

—"It's beautiful," he said, his voice trembling. "Painful... but beautiful."

I nodded, still unsure if I could speak yet.

—"Thank you for sharing it with me. I don't know if I would've had the courage."

—"I didn't do it out of courage," I admitted. "I did it because I needed someone else to know. Someone else to remember him with me."

—"And here I am," he said, with a faint smile. "To remember him with you."

We stayed like that. We didn't need much more.

And for the first time, I understood that pain, when shared, doesn't multiply.

Sometimes, it divides.