A letter never sent

Emma sat on the floor of her apartment, staring at the blank page in front of her. The cursor blinked, waiting. Mocking.

She had spent the past hour trying to write, but every sentence dissolved into unfinished thoughts.

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, she reached for her notebook instead. If she couldn't say it to him, she would write it.

Ren,

I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because I don't trust myself to say these words out loud. Maybe because part of me still believes you'll find me again, and when you do, I need you to understand.

I never wanted to walk away from you. But I needed to.

Because you hesitated.

And hesitation isn't something you do when you're sure about someone.

You once told me that photography is about capturing moments that disappear too quickly. Maybe that's what we were—something fleeting, something never meant to last.

But a part of me doesn't believe that.

A part of me still wonders if we're unfinished.

If you figure it out—if you know what you want—find me.

Emma

---

She stared at the words, her heart pounding.

And then—before she could overthink—she closed the notebook, shoved it into a drawer, and left it there.

A letter never sent.

Because this time, it wasn't her move to make.