Filed under: Grief Letters, Dispatch from the Haunted, Echoes
You will never read this.
That is the point. And yet I write it anyway—because words have a way of living longer than silence, and mine have been pacing in the dark for far too long.
I write for the version of you that still exists in the strange, untouchable places—between a laugh you didn’t mean to give me and a glance that said more than you ever would aloud.
I write for the version of me that still wakes in the night with the ghost-weight of your name pressed into my chest like a bruise.
This letter is not an invitation.
It is a map no one asked for. It is proof that I could love you deeply and still leave the door unlocked when I walked away. You wouldn’t call it betrayal. You’d call it distance. But we both know what distance really is—a choice, repeated until it looks like fate.
If you’re still here, it’s because you’ve realized this isn’t about romance anymore. It’s about gravity—
and the quiet violence of breaking orbit.
⸻
🔒 Some letters are too dangerous to deliver,
but too heavy to keep.
Join The Bell Underground to read the rest. 🔔