"Some words are too full to speak.
So we write them down and tuck them into the corners of our hearts."
Dear Diary,
Today, I wrote him a letter.
Not to hand to him.
Not to text or email or fold into his coat pocket.
Just to get the feelings out.
To give my chest some room to breathe.
I used my favorite ink pen —
the one that flows like thought before it turns to fear.
I lit a candle.
Put on soft music.
And let myself feel.
This is what I wrote:
Dear You,
I don't know when I started memorizing your laugh.
But I did.
I know the way it softens at the end,
how it's louder when you're trying not to be,
and how it lingers like warmth in the room even after you leave.
Sometimes I imagine telling you everything.
That when you say my name,
it feels like poetry in a world that only speaks in noise.
That when you look at me,
I feel like a person again — not a shadow, not a scribble,
but something fully drawn.
I wonder what you'd say
if I told you how the world dims a little when you're not in it.
Or how I keep the messages you send,
even the short ones,
because they feel like proof that someone sees me.
Really sees me.
Sometimes I imagine us in the future.
Not a perfect one.
Just one where you're still around.
Where I tell you stories while you cook.
Where you fall asleep mid-sentence and I cover you with a blanket.
Where we water plants and argue about what to name our cat.
(You'd want something simple. I'd want something ridiculous. We'd settle on both.)
But this letter…
it isn't for you.
It's for me.
To remind myself that I can feel this deeply.
That I can love without rushing or asking or fearing.
Just love.
Quietly.
Steadily.
Beautifully.
– Wunor
Then I folded it
and tucked it inside my copy of Jane Eyre —
right between the chapters where she learns to love herself
before anyone else.
I don't know if he'll ever read it.
But I wrote it.
And somehow, that feels brave enough for today.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 💌📚🕊️