You’ve gathered dust inside me for decades. Half-spoken sentences, pocketed secrets, and words I meant to send when the time was right have lingered, untouched. The moment never came; it was always too tender, too raw, too late. So you stayed, cluttering the quiet.
Some of you were love letters I never dared to start. Others were apologies: some too small to matter, others too large to seem sincere. One or two were awkward thank-yous, grown stale with time. Finally, there were the ones to myself—drafted in weary midnights, never signed.
This is your belated delivery—a single envelope for everyone and no one. It’s a letter to the lives I missed, the people I misplaced, and the better man I meant to be. I’m not asking for replies; after all, most letters never get one.
If there is grace in this, it’s that I am finally writing. It isn’t perfect. It isn’t prompt. But it is honest. There are now pixels where there was once silence.
Yours, belatedly,
David