I imagine it sometimes—the letter you never wrote,
the words you almost said, the truth that trembled on your lips
but died before it could escape.

Would it have been an apology? A confession?
Or merely a quiet acknowledgment
of everything left unsaid between us?

Perhaps you sat in the dim glow of a dying candle,
pen in hand, staring at the paper
as if the weight of your thoughts
was too much for ink to bear.

Perhaps you wrote the first few lines,
hesitated, crossed them out,
and in that hesitation,
decided that silence was easier.

Or perhaps you never meant to write at all.
Perhaps you knew, as I did,
that some words are better left unspoken,
some wounds better left untouched.

And so, the letter remains unwritten,
just as we remain unfinished—
a story with no ending,
a question that will never be answered.