“everything we say at funerals should be said at birthday parties instead. we leave so much love unspoken”

We write two letters in our lifetime:

the one we send,

and the one we never do.

The letter we send is reckless,

beautiful in its courage—

softened by hope,

trimmed down to what might be forgiven.

it spills only what we dare to say,

only what we hope will be received.

But the letter we never send

is where the tragedy lives. Where the grief learns how to speak.

There, every word is poured without mercy,

every feeling laid bare,

even the ones we spend a lifetime avoiding.

It holds truths too painful to speak,

confessions too heavy for a voice,

sentences that hurt too much

even to be written.

There, nothing is spared.

Every word bleeds freely,

every feeling collapses onto the page—

even the ones we bury so deep

sentences that tremble

because writing them feels like losing everything.

There, it carries memories of pain

alongside the love we once had.

It remembers the pain

exactly as it was,

pressed against the memory of love

we were never able to let go of.

It holds goodbyes that felt unbearably heavy,

knowing how deeply we loved.

It holds the ache of belonging—

a feeling so strong

it feels like it is tearing your heart apart.

Yet we write them anyway,

not to be answered,

not to be saved,

but because some pain

refuses to stay silent,

even when it must remain unheard.

silently,

lovingly,

alone.

Sincerely,

METANOIA