The day you write your letters,
Is the day you planned to leave.
You’ve lived there for years—
In the question:
How?
Who will find me?
When it enters your mind,
It’s quiet at first,
But it gets louder,
Soon it’s all you hear.
Though you loved
The thought—
You were too scared to
Of making it real.
So instead,
You put the feelings elsewhere,
Leaving thin, fading lines,
Where no one looks long enough to notice.
And if they do—
They look away.
Not their problem.
Not their place.
Just a phase.
But it grows.
What once barely marked you
Starts to feel like
A short quiet,
A moment where all your weight has been lifted.
Your thoughts pile up faster now,
Too heavy
And too much,
With nowhere to go.
So you try to make space,
But it’s never enough.
The lines are too small
For everything inside you.
No one sees.
No one asks.
So you start the letters.
Mom.
Dad.
Best friend—
You stop.
You write what your supposed to,
That you love them,
That it isn’t there fault,
That something inside you is broke
In a way you can’t explain.
As the ink settles into the paper,
The words feel wrong.
They burn into the page.
Because you did ask,
Just not out loud.
And they never heard you,
Not once.
The hesitation leaves you,
Like it wasn’t there to begin with.
You turn the page.
Three words.
“It’s your fault.”
Because silence is still an answer.
And the day you wrote your letters
Was the day
You stopped writing them at all.