Letters Never Sent
It had been exactly 19 days since Ezra left.
Talia had counted.
She didn't mean to—she just found herself glancing at the calendar more often than usual. She still had his hoodie folded on her desk chair, untouched. It smelled faintly of his cologne and something warmer—something like home.
They texted. Called. Facetimed a few times.
But five minutes was harder now.
Time zones, lab work, lectures, rotations—it all stretched the space between them wider than the miles already had.
Still, Talia pretended it didn't hurt. She joked with him on calls, sent him sarcastic memes and photos of her half-eaten lunches with the caption "Starving artist. Feed me. Send chocolate."
Ezra always replied.
But it wasn't the same.
On the 20th day, she wrote him a letter.
Not to send—but to feel something.
Ezra,
You once said you'd take me in fragments.
Well… here's one.
I miss the way your face softens when you talk about things you love. I miss how you over-explain your nerdy facts even when I roll my eyes. I even miss your weird oatmeal obsession.
It's dumb. You're gone for a summer. Not forever.
But it feels forever.
And part of me hates that.
Because I'm not supposed to need anyone.
And yet… here I am.
-T
She folded it, then tucked it into the back of her notebook—between cardiac cycle diagrams and her doodles of his initials.
It wasn't the only letter.
Over the next week, she wrote four more.
One after failing a practice OSCE.
One after dreaming of him laughing in their kitchen.
One after seeing a couple on the street sharing fries and realizing how lonely campus felt without him.
And one after realizing she wasn't angry at him for leaving—she was angry at herself for not being brave enough to say "don't go."
Ezra's end wasn't easier.
The internship was intense—hours blurred into caffeine and surgical gloves. Everyone around him was hypercompetitive, driven, brilliant.
But none of them were Talia.
No one looked at him like she did.
No one said, "You're pushing yourself too hard, Ezra," while shoving a granola bar in his face.
He found himself scrolling through old photos. Listening to a voice note she'd once sent him mid-study session where she yelled at her laptop and called the renal system a "drama queen."
It made him laugh. Then it made him sad.
He started writing letters too.
Kept them in his notes app—always at night, always just before bed.
Talia,
Today I held a heart in my hand. Literally. During observation.
All I could think was—yours is bigger. Stronger.
Even when it scares you.
Even when you try to protect it from me.
I hope you know—I've never wanted to hurt it.
-Ez
He never sent them either.
One night, Talia opened the drawer and reread all her letters.
She stared at the last one for a long time, then took out her phone and typed a single message.
I've been writing you letters I'll never send. That probably means something. Maybe that I miss you more than I admit. Maybe that I'm still scared of how much I love you.
Ezra replied almost immediately.
Funny. I've got a folder full of unsent ones too. Maybe it means we're both too in love to risk saying the wrong thing.
She stared at the screen. Then her fingers moved quickly.
Then let's say the wrong thing. Let's say it anyway.
There was a long pause.
Then:
I love you, Talia.
All the way from New York to your favorite café table.
Through unsent letters and unfinished calls.
Through whatever comes next.
She exhaled slowly, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.
I love you too, Ezra. Even when I don't say it out loud. Especially then.
The next morning, she mailed one of the letters.
Just one.
No return address. No instructions.
Just the words she couldn't keep buried anymore.