i wrote a letter today.
no, that is not true.
i tried to write a letter today.
it began like most letters begin. a blank page. a pen that hesitated a little. a name that almost wrote itself at the top before i stopped my own hand. strange how the body remembers directions the mind is trying to forget.
i sat there for a long time just looking at the paper.
and then i thought where exactly am i sending this?
because a letter is a small traveler. it needs roads. it needs an address. it needs a door where someone will pause, open it slowly, and say… oh.
but what happens when the letter knows where it wants to go,
and the world does not?
i wrote the first line anyway.
then scratched it out.
then wrote again.
“i hope you are—”
no.
too ordinary.
i tore the corner a little. not on purpose. or maybe on purpose. i don't know anymore.
i started again.
“do you ever…”
and then i stopped.
because that question suddenly felt dangerous. questions travel further than statements. they expect answers. and answers require someone on the other side.
are you on the other side?
see… this is the problem. i am already talking to you inside the letter. as if the paper knows where you live. as if the ink is confident it will find your hands somehow.
but the envelope beside me is empty.
no street.
no city.
not even a lie of a location.
i laugh at that sometimes because what kind of person writes a letter without knowing where it will go?
maybe the same kind of person who still believes certain words deserve to exist even if no one reads them.
or maybe someone who is slowly losing an argument with silence.
i kept writing.
stopping.
writing again.
“today i saw something that reminded me of you...”
no.
scratch that.
everything reminds me of you. that sentence would be unfair to the rest of the world.
then i wrote your name.
just once.
very small.
then crossed it out so violently the paper almost tore. i stared at the scratch marks for a while.
tell me something.
if a letter never reaches you… does it still count as a letter?
or does it become something else… a confession maybe… or a ghost.
i am asking seriously.
because i keep imagining strange things. like what if i put this letter in an envelope anyway and write something ridiculous where the address should be.
would the postman laugh?
would it travel a little… just a little… before someone sends it back?
or worse.
what if it actually reaches you.
what if one evening there is a knock on your door and someone hands you this thin, confused envelope. you turn it in your hands and say my name quietly.
would you open it?
or would you already know what it says.
wait.
i am doing that thing again. asking questions you cannot hear.
this is the strange part of writing to someone who does not have an address anymore. the conversation keeps happening anyway. the paper listens. the pen listens. the room listens.
only you...
…
see.
even now i stopped.
i wrote three words just now and erased them immediately. i am not even sure why. maybe because once they are written they start demanding honesty.
and honesty is a dangerous animal.
let me ask you something else.
do you know that somewhere, right now, there exists a letter meant for you that can't find its way?
that it is sitting on a table, beside someone who keeps folding it and unfolding it like a nervous habit?
that every few minutes the writer looks at the empty space where the address should be and wonders if writing your name there would be a mistake…
or a miracle.
because i am starting to think something strange.
maybe the real problem is not the address.
maybe i know exactly where to send it.
maybe the real question is...
if i send it,
and you read it,
and you understand it,
what happens after that?
do letters like this end stories.
or start them again.
i don't know.
i really don't.
and the letter is still here.
half written.
half crying.
waiting for me to decide
whether the next line should be
your address.
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3March 6, 2026 310 2 1
