Three letters written for this page, to show how the three parts can sound. None of them is a real person's letter.
Example written for this page
A letter to an ex, five months after the last text
Dear J,
It's been five months since we last talked, and I still reach for my phone when something funny happens at work. I don't send anything, but my hand still knows the way. I think about the last night at your place. You were quiet, and I filled the quiet with plans, because plans felt easier than asking what was wrong.
What I never told you is that I knew before you did. I felt it in March, when we stopped finishing each other's stories. I kept going because I didn't want to be the one who said it first. That wasn't fair to either of us.
I'm keeping the Sunday walks, the way you laughed before you got to the punchline, and the version of me who said yes to things. I'm leaving the waiting here: waiting for a text, waiting to be sure, waiting for you to explain it in a way that made it easier.
M
Example written for this page
A letter to a friend who drifted
Dear Priya,
I miss the way we used to talk on the phone while we both cooked dinner, three time zones apart and still somehow in the same kitchen. I don't know exactly when that stopped. A missed call, then a week, then a birthday I almost forgot. Nobody did anything wrong, and that makes it harder to fix.
I wish I'd told you, when you moved, that I was scared we'd turn into people who only like each other's photos. I didn't want to sound needy, so I said nothing and let the gaps get longer. When you texted on my birthday, I wrote back a whole paragraph and then deleted most of it.
These days, I hope the new city feels like home, and that someone there knows how you take your tea. I'm keeping our voice notes from that long winter. I'm letting go of the idea that drifting apart means it wasn't real.
Love, Sam
Example written for this page
A letter to my younger self, at 19
Dear 19-year-old me,
At that age, you were working nights at the café and telling everyone you were fine. You weren't sleeping much, you were scared of letting Mom down, and you thought being tired all the time was what being an adult felt like. You were also the one who drove everyone home and knew every birthday, and nobody asked how you were.
I wish someone had told you that changing your mind isn't failing. You switched majors twice and called yourself a quitter. You weren't. You were paying attention to what didn't fit, and that turned out to be a skill.
I'm proud of you for leaving the job that made you cry in the walk-in fridge, even though it took a year. I'm proud you kept drawing in the margins of every notebook. You'd be surprised how much of you is still here, and how much kinder I am to you now.
Me, at 31