The Letter He Will Never Send

Hey,

I’ve been sitting with this for a while now — too long, probably.
And I don’t even know if I have the right to say anything. But here it is anyway.

You showed up for me.
Day after day.
Year after year.
In all the little ways that I pretended not to notice but always felt.

You cared about how I was doing. You asked. You stayed curious.
And not once — not once — did I return the favor.
I never asked how you were.

Not because I didn’t wonder.
But because wondering meant I’d have to feel something. And feeling something… scares me.

I’ve built an entire life around keeping people far enough away to be safe.
You snuck in — not by force, but by kindness.
And I didn’t know how to handle that.

So I did what I always do:
Sent vague messages. Deflected with humor.
Offered crumbs and called it connection.

You told me how you felt. And I froze.
Not because I didn’t care.
But because I didn’t know how to say, “Me too.”
I still don’t.

I wish I could tell you that I’m ready. That I’m brave now.
But the truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

What I do know is that you were real.
You were patient.
You were kind in a way I didn’t know people could be.

And I’m sorry I didn’t meet you there.

Maybe this letter is too late.
Maybe it’s just a whisper into a space you’ve already walked away from.

But if nothing else, I hope you know this:

It wasn’t you.
You were exactly what I needed —
And everything I wasn’t ready for.

– (A Dismissive Avoidant)