Letter Nine – Written from Far Away
My thoughts often wandered to you, before the day I said no.
And then, after that day—when I said no and cried like someone who had just lost something so very precious—my thoughts stayed with me.
And then I moved on with my life—a life you were never in, and never will be. The dreams I used to have about you finally faded. I don't remember when, but at some point, they simply stopped.
Maybe I still thought of you, here and there—like when I visited another city or traveled to a different country. A quiet thought would sometimes surface in the back of my mind: maybe I'd run into you around the corner, on a train, or at a coffee stand on some gloomy winter day.
But then, many things happened in my life, and I stopped imagining encounters like that. My hands were full, and I enjoyed every moment of it. I browsed through old photos on my computer, revisiting memories and the life I had built over the years.
Sometimes I'd frown at some distant news. And then came the pandemic.
I frowned again, as things began to fall apart, and I had to wear a face mask wherever I went. A small voice murmured at the back of my mind—worrying about something, or someone—but then it went quiet. I didn't dig deeper to find where that voice came from.
I focused on the people around me, on work, and on the life that mattered—the life I built with my own hands, with my youth.
I remember hearing a line in a movie:
You don't actually forget the past—you just stop remembering it.
I think that's true. Because one day, years after the pandemic—the strange, dreamlike three years—when people started traveling again, the memories of you, the ones I'd tucked away in a drawer in my mind, suddenly fell out of the cabinet.
And they made such a loud noise.
I remembered you again. I remembered our last conversation.
How are you now? Are you well?
Once those voices came into my head, they wouldn't leave. I tried to ignore them, but they kept filling my ears, my heart.
I tried to recall your email address. Then I opened a blank draft—no title, no message. I told myself I just wanted to see if it would bounce back. If it didn't, that meant the address was still valid. That meant... you were still there.
I typed the address.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt my chest. My hands trembled.
And then—I pressed send.
And days later, your reply appeared.
Note: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
