To: A Letter to You

“If only my unspoken words could rewrite time…”

That line echoed endlessly in my mind, as if the memories of us were caught on repeat.

I still remember how the classroom felt that day—the chatter louder than usual, voices overlapping as everyone talked about the upcoming town festival. Posters lined the walls, bright and impossible to ignore, and excitement hung in the air like confetti. Even I, usually quiet and content to watch from the sidelines, felt something stir in my chest. A small pull. A curiosity I didn’t quite know what to do with yet.

The days leading to the festival were filled with preparations, laughter, and whispered hopes of fleeting romances under the lights. When the day finally arrived, the streets bloomed with color and sound.

By nightfall, the noise had grown heavier than I expected. I drifted away from my friends—not lost, just quietly choosing space—wandering beneath lanterns until the excitement dulled into something overwhelming.

I sat beneath a tree on an old bench, letting the cool night air soothe my flushed cheeks. I remember thinking how good it felt to be still for a moment, away from the crowd.

That’s when he appeared—breathless, a little disheveled, eyes bright with the same restless energy everyone seemed to carry that night.

“Sorry,” he panted, dropping onto the bench beside me without much thought.

I turned, surprised. My instinct was to retreat, but before the silence could turn awkward, he blurted out his name. It was so sudden, so oddly sincere, that laughter slipped out of me before I could stop it.

The ease of it caught me off guard. I didn’t know why, but in that moment, being there with him felt strangely simple—almost comforting.

We talked about everything, about nothing. It felt easy in a way that surprised me. Then the sky bloomed with fireworks, light spilling across his face, and I remember thinking he looked like he belonged to that moment—fleeting, dazzling, impossible to hold onto.

There was a quiet ache in realizing that. The kind you feel when you know something won’t last, even as you’re still inside it.

When his friends called him back, he squeezed my hand and pressed a piece of paper into it before disappearing into the crowd. On the paper, an address.

I didn’t look at it right away. I kept it folded in my pocket, telling myself it was nothing, that the night would fade like everything else.

But days passed, and the memory refused to loosen its grip. I found myself unfolding the paper again and again until, finally, I gave in and wrote him a letter—careful, casual, uncertain, and hopeful in a way that scared me.


---

To the boy with a random name,

I wasn’t sure if I should write this… but I guess curiosity won.

It’s funny that we only talked for a little while under the fireworks, yet I keep replaying that moment in my head. Maybe it’s because it felt… different. Unexpected.

You gave me your address so casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. I don’t usually do things like this, but… here I am.

I don’t know what to say, really. Just… hi. And thank you for making that night a little brighter.

If you remember me, write back.

From,
The girl under the fireworks,
Cath.


---

To my surprise, a reply came. His words carried excitement and warmth, and something I couldn’t name then—but felt all the same.

Letters turned into a rhythm. I wrote to him about the small, ordinary things: the books I was reading, the way I liked tending to our little garden, my friends who were loud and bright enough for all of us. I told him about my fears too—entrance exams, the quiet tension at home, the things I didn’t yet know how to fix.

In between his words and mine, something gentle grew.

Eventually, we met again—one last time before he moved even farther away. That day at the train station felt like stolen time. His eyes searched mine, my hand reluctant to let his go. I remember realizing then that I had fallen in love, quietly and without defenses.

It was the calm before everything changed.

My world fell apart faster than I could catch it.

My parents’ divorce shattered everything. My mother and I left in a rush—no time to pack, no time to write. In the chaos, I lost everything, including his letters and the address he had sent me.

I didn’t even get to choose what I left behind. My mother forbade me from going back, from reaching out, from holding on to anything tied to that life. Our names were changed soon after, as if the past could be erased just by calling ourselves something else.

In the blink of an eye, he was gone—like a dream I wasn’t allowed to wake up from.

Days passed like shadows fading into nothing. Between caring for my mother, juggling part-time jobs, and growing up too fast, I learned how to survive by burying the parts of my heart that hurt too much to carry.

My mother never truly recovered. Grief hardened into anger, into bottles and broken words. I stayed by her side because there was nowhere else to go—but somewhere along the way, I lost myself too.

Now, I’m older. A professional, as they like to say. Office buildings, meetings, paychecks—a far cry from the wide-eyed girl who once waited for letters by the window.

A year had passed since my mother died. Long enough for the house to grow quiet. Long enough for grief to loosen its grip just enough for memories to return.

The next day, I went back to my old home.

My father greeted me at the door, hesitant, worn down by time and things left unsaid. We talked longer than I expected—about the past, about mistakes, about forgiveness that came too late or not at all.

Then he disappeared into another room and came back holding a small bundle of letters.

“A boy kept sending these,” he said. “He even came here… helped me search for you. But your mother changed your names. Fate… well, fate wasn’t kind to us.”

I didn’t answer. My hands were already trembling as I took the letters from him, the paper worn soft from time.

I moved to the table and sat down, stacking them carefully, as if their order mattered. One by one, I opened them.

His words were the same as I remembered—warm, patient, unwavering. Each letter carried a steadiness I had once depended on, even when I wasn’t there to return it.

When I reached the most recent one, dated a year ago, I had to stop. My chest tightened in a way I couldn’t ignore.

I carefully unfolded it.


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To the girl who once sat beside me under the fireworks,

I don’t know if this letter will ever reach you, but my heart begs me to write it.

For years, I’ve waited, measuring time by sunrise after sunrise, hoping for your reply. Do you remember that night at the festival? The fireworks in your eyes? I knew then I would spend a lifetime holding on to that light.

Your letters were my warmth. When they stopped, the silence was deafening. I tried to convince myself that maybe they were lost, that life had filled your days, that time had simply gotten in the way. But the uncertainty never loosened its grip.

Even so, I can’t let myself believe this is the end. My heart refuses to accept it. So I’ll be waiting where it all began. On the day of the festival, I’ll stand beneath the same fireworks, hoping the light will guide you back to me.

If you read this, know that you were my miracle.

Forever yours,
The boy who still holds your last letter close to his heart,
Mike


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The paper trembled in my hands.

When I finally looked up, my eyes landed on the calendar hanging across the room.

The festival was tomorrow.

I let myself hope—just enough to believe that if fate gave me one opening, I would take it.

I went back to the old bench beneath the tree, hands trembling, heart pounding louder than the fireworks above me.

I waited.

But he never came.

Rain began to fall instead. I stayed there longer than I should have, letting it blur the disappointment I wasn’t ready to admit.

Six months later, I was clearing out the last corners of my old bedroom, making space for things that no longer fit who I had been. That was when a letter arrived—no return address, just my name on the envelope.

Inside was a wedding invitation.

As I pulled it free, something else slipped out and landed softly on the floor.

I stared at it for a moment before kneeling down to pick it up, already sensing it wasn’t meant to be ignored.

I unfolded the paper slowly.


---

To the one who I cherished deeply,

This may be the last letter I ever write to you, and I never thought it would be the hardest.

Life has taken me somewhere I didn’t expect. Soon, I’ll be standing at the altar, beginning a new chapter with someone who chose to love me when I thought I had been forgotten. She is kind. She is patient. And she deserves the honesty of these words.

Before that day comes, I need to tell you the truth I’ve carried quietly for years. I waited. I waited longer than I should have, longer than anyone ever knew. I waited through unanswered letters, through seasons that passed without explanation, through mornings where I told myself this would be the day I finally let go.

I didn’t.

Your memory stayed with me—in the places I returned to, in the songs I couldn’t listen to all the way through, in the way fireworks still make my chest tighten. I memorized your handwriting, the careful way you chose your words, the pauses between your lines. Those letters were more than paper and ink. They were proof that once, even briefly, I mattered to you.

I loved you quietly. I loved you patiently. And even when I began walking a different path, a part of me still looked back, wondering if you were somewhere behind me, just out of sight.

I don’t write this to ask you to come back. I don’t write this to change anything. I write this because my heart won’t let me move forward without saying goodbye properly.

I have one last wish. If you’re out there, if you still remember me, please come. Come to my wedding and let me see you one last time. I want to know you’re safe. I want to know you’re happy. I want to believe that, even if our story didn’t last, it meant something to both of us.

Thank you—for the letters, for the waiting, for the brief moment in my life where everything felt possible.

Take care.
Mike


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The wedding day arrived.

I stood at the edge of the crowd, heart in pieces, eyes fixed on him—smiling, composed, the boy who now belonged to someone else.

I smiled through the ache and turned to leave.

Somewhere between the noise and the movement, an envelope slipped from my hand.

I didn’t notice. Not then. I was too occupied holding myself together, too practiced at pretending I was okay.

It wasn’t until I got home, when the quiet finally settled in, that I realized something was missing.

My fingers searched my bag, my pockets, my breath turning shallow. The last letter… it was gone.

The letter I had written for him. For today. I had never decided whether I would give it to him.

It seemed I didn’t have to. Fate had already decided for me.

—

To the boy who taught me how fragile moments can be,

I never knew regret could weigh this much. I carry it quietly—the letters I never sent, the words I never spoke, the time I let slip away.

I remember everything. Your voice beneath the fireworks. The warmth of your words. The way you waited, even when I didn’t know how to return.

Life tangled us in its cruel games. I couldn’t hold on. And yet, I never truly let go.

I wonder sometimes—what if I had written sooner? What if I had fought harder? Would we be standing side by side now, instead of worlds apart?

I’ll never know. That’s the ache that lingers.

I want you to be happy. Truly.
But selfishly, I wish I could have been the reason for your smile today.

This letter is my goodbye. Or maybe just my final what if.

And if fate is kind, perhaps in another lifetime, we’ll finish the story we never got to write.

Always,
Cath

Whether he would pick it up, read it, or let it be carried away by the wind, I didn’t know.

And maybe… I didn’t want to know.