Unloved

Chapter 20

It's a sunny morning, 5am. I pulled back the curtains, and the vibrant layers of color against the blue sky and green fields caught my attention. Immediately, I felt the urge to write to you, to let you know how much I miss you. I told myself I wouldn't write again so soon, but racing thoughts filled my head. Should I go back to bed or let myself speak once more?

You know, this isn't the first time I've written something for you; months and days have passed, yet you remain my beloved addressee to my letters that still remain unsent—letters to you from last dry season, and two summers ago, always unsent, forever unaddressed - Yet, each letter before me understands whose heart it belongs to, always yours. God knows how I ache to decimate these godforsaken words —

for what have I become, if not a hoarder of unsent love letters?

they might lose their meaning—or worse, fall on deaf ears. But every morning, as the sun rises and fills the world with light, I can't help but think of you, and the words come rushing back, demanding to be written. The ink on these pages is as relentless as my feelings, refusing to fade no matter how many times I try to forget.

I sometimes wonder if these letters will ever find their way to you, or if they'll remain tucked away, gathering dust like memories we never had the chance to create. There's a strange comfort in writing to you, even if you'll never read these words. It's as if, through them, I can keep you close, even when distance and time conspire to pull us apart.

But how much longer can I continue like this, pouring my heart onto paper only to hide it away? How many more sunrises will I witness, thinking of you, before I finally muster the courage to send these letters, or let them go altogether? The weight of these unsent words grows heavier with each passing day, and yet I can't seem to stop myself from writing.

Perhaps it's because, deep down, I believe that these words are the only part of you I can still hold onto—the only proof that once, I loved someone so deeply that the mere thought of them could fill pages with endless, unsent confessions. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for now.

But one day, when the time feels right, I hope to break free from this cycle of writing and hiding, and find the strength to send these letters—to let you know how much you've meant to me, even if it changes nothing. Until then, I'll keep them close, a reminder of the love that could have been, and the words that still belong to you.

So here I am, once again, writing to you under the morning sun, hoping that someday, you might hear the words I've kept silent for far too long.