Hindsight is 16/20

I’ve always been a romantic. Hopeless. A hopeless romantic.

And I was a letter writer. In the worst sense of the term. We wrote scathing love letters to each other, the ones where dreams and hearts meet in pen ink on paper. Our letters, like our goodbyes, were tortured. Because love is often beautifully tragic. These letters reflect that. Nothing was safe from typing hands (because, while I may be a romantic, I’m also a savy email-er). My bursting dreams, my bursting heart, my breaking heart… it’s all there. Every line was sent for him to read. Every ache was reciprocated in turn. Typos and grammatical errors aside, these letters would lurch any heart into beating again with their brutal honesty. Two people who loved and trusted each other enough to say all the things that should never be shared.

I’ve grown up a bit. I’ve wised up a bit. And now love letters remain in my “draft box” instead of my “sent box.”

Recently some close friends shared their heartache and the letters that accompany them. They sent their love letters, but to me, and not to the hearts that should see.

Because they’ve grown up a bit. They’ve wised up a bit.

They’re exquisite. And, with each passing line, my eyes widened with tears.

They’re the “dear love, I can’t sleep without you” ones; the “dear love, I love you, but you are an ass, and right now I hate you” ones; the “dear love, I want you to be happy, but happy with me” ones. The “dear love, as much as I want to be stronger, to be better, to be the friend I would love to be, please let me lay this at my feet and walk away” ones.

These exquisite letters.

These love letters that we will never send.