Never sent

Night. Deep night. Darkness surrounds me, and I sit at the desk in front of a blank sheet of paper, hoping to write what I have wanted to say for a long time. But I never dared to—because I shouldn’t. Some things cannot be said out loud. Maybe I can try to write them down and let everything go its own way. But I’m afraid. I don’t wanna make a crucial mistake. The paper seems too white, almost blinding. My fingers slide along its edge, and I catch myself gripping the pencil too tightly—so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I have already counted about ten yawns—it’s definitely time to go to bed. Tomorrow will be busy, yet here I am, trying to squeeze out at least one word. But nothing comes. Instead, I keep thinking that this is a bad idea. Of course it’s a bad idea. But this is my last chance to put everything in its place. I understand perfectly well that I could ruin everything so badly that not only I, but he too would have to deal with the consequences. I don’t want to create problems for him, but I also can’t leave my feelings alone anymore. I don’t know why I can’t put out this fire inside me. I don’t understand why I always look for him in the crowd, hoping our eyes might meet. What consequences will this confession bring? I can only guess. There is a chance that everything will be fine—but that only happens in romantic movies, which I hate. Much more likely, my confession will simply be ignored. In truth, I don’t want to destroy the harmony and understanding that have grown between us. But I can no longer live in a lie. “I’ll only make things worse…” I say out loud, grabbing my head and leaning back in the chair. I can’t do this anymore. I want to feel free. I want to finally put a full stop and close this chapter of my life. But this fire is eating me from the inside and won’t let me rest until I get rid of its source. It’s too heavy to carry this burden alone. If I manage to give the letter to its recipient, maybe my soul will calm down, knowing that I did everything I could. And maybe then I’ll be able to forget everything—to bury my feelings as deeply as possible. I stand up and decide to open the window; Maybe the street air will refresh my mind. Looking outside through the gap in the curtains, I notice how empty the street is. A few streetlights are on, and the farthest one is flickering. No cars pass by—it’s too late, and everyone who wanted to be somewhere is already home. The neighbor’s annoying cat, as usual, is fighting someone over territory. Somewhere in the distance, a building door slams shut. Someone else’s life goes on—calmly, without cracks, without doubts. With a heavy sigh, I sit back at the desk. Either I finish this, or I don’t. “Dear…” After writing the first word, my hand freezes. For a second, it feels like my heart is beating too loudly—as if it could be heard. Images flash before my eyes: his eyes, in which I have drowned more than once, and then his face becomes clearer. I feel as if I’m in a fog, staring at the wall in front of me, while this fire keeps burning inside. I know it won’t leave me alone until I get rid of its source. But I can’t put an end to this so easily. It’s just too hard to carry this weight alone. If I can give the letter to him, maybe my soul will finally calm down, knowing that everything possible has been done. And if that works, maybe I’ll be able to forget—to bury my feelings as deeply as I can. The pencil lead breaks. I sharpen it. I need to focus on this important task. But in reality, it’s not an obligation at all. I don’t have to write anything. I don’t have to let him know. There is no real need for this. Yet I’m sure I need to leave my feelings on a blank sheet of paper. Maybe I can leave them here and forget all the poems written because of him. I keep writing… I write some nonsense that, when I reread it, I barely understand myself. This won’t work. The lead snaps again with a dry click. I stare at it longer than necessary, as if it were a sign—another proof that I’m doing something wrong. Unable to hold back, I tear the paper into small pieces. I take a new sheet and start again… I don’t know whether I should pour my soul out to him and confess everything, but I write something simple: “I have loved you for a long time… Please forgive me if I have destroyed everything that was built between us over these years of working together.” I reread it and can’t bring myself to add the final touch—my name, so that he would at least know who the sender is, although he would understand even without it. I sign with my initials and study every crooked letter. A candle stands on the desk, and I bring the paper closer to the flame. The fire greedily reaches for the lines, curling the paper. I feel the warmth touch my fingers, but I don’t pull my hand away at once. The flame slowly devours letter after letter, until everything finally turns to ash. The ash settles on the desk—where the truth could have been. I don’t even wait for the fire to go out. “He will never receive this letter.” An odd calm settles in, but the smell of smoke still lingers in the room.