The Weight of Unsent Letters

ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR

Date 16/04/2025

I once wrote a letter I never sent.
Then I wrote another. And another.

Over time, a shoebox in my cupboard grew heavier—not with words, but with everything I could never say.

To my mother: “I forgive you, even though I still cry alone.”
To an old friend: “I miss who we were more than who you are.”
To a version of myself: “You did your best. That was enough.”

We think unsent letters are failures. But they’re not.
They are rehearsals of healing.
Proof that we still care, even when it’s too late to show it.

That box still sits there.
I haven’t opened it in years.
But I sleep better knowing it’s full.

RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA

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