To P,

I think I miss the version of me who still believed there was time. Time to explain. Time to fix it. Time to hold you a little longer before everything became memory. I have typed your name more times than I have said it out loud. I have deleted messages that were honest, kind, angry, pathetic, and everything in between. In the end, I sent nothing. Maybe silence was the last thing I could give you without asking for anything back. But if this ever finds you, I hope you know this: You were not easy to forget. You were not just a chapter. You were the page I kept reopening, even after the story had ended. And on the days you feel unloved, I hope the world is gentle enough to remind you that someone once cared for you quietly, completely and from far away.