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[March 3]
Dear K,
You said people don’t write letters anymore. That nobody has time to sit down and actually think long enough to fill a page. So here I am, proving you wrong , because apparently, I’m old-fashioned and stubborn enough to still believe in paper and words and maybe a little bit of sentimentality.
Don’t start thinking this makes you special. It’s not a love letter. It’s just me being bored and sentimental and probably ridiculous
I guess I just like the idea that I can say everything here without having to wait for you to roll your eyes or interrupt me halfway through with one of your dumb jokes.
I’m watching you now, you’re sitting on my bed, reading this book, or maybe trying to read it would be a better description. You can never stay still for more than a few minutes, always talking over yourself or bouncing your leg or whatever.
You hum when you’re concentrating. Did you know that? I can always tell when you’re thinking hard because it turns into this low, off-key noise that somehow makes the whole room feel safe. It’s so stupidly comforting that I sometimes forget to breathe.
Anyway. Consider this proof that someone still writes letters. Even if you never get to read them.
T.
[March 5]
Dear K,
I started this one without meaning to. I opened my notebook and somehow your name just appeared at the top of the page like it was waiting there. Maybe it’s just habit now, the way my thoughts orbit you when I’m not paying attention. Or maybe should be worried about that.
Today, you gave me your half of your sandwich because I forgot lunch again. You didn’t make a big deal of it , just handed it over with that look that says you’re hopeless, but I’ll feed you anyway. You just pushed the plate toward me and said, “Eat, you look tired.” You always say it like it’s nothing, but it’s never nothing to me.
It’s nothing, right? Just a small thing. But I keep replaying it in my head like it mattered more than it should.
It’s weird, how the smallest things stick. The chipped corner of your phone case. The blue band you always wear around your wrist, even though the color’s faded. The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking, like you’re trying to hear your own thoughts better.
I’m starting to realize that the moments I remember most aren’t really the big things. It's the small ones. The quiet ones. The ones that slip by unless I catch them here.
I catch myself waiting for you to laugh in conversations that don’t even involve you. It’s like I’ve mapped out what it sounds like, that laugh that starts too loud and ends softer.
None of these things should matter. But they do. They’re what I end up remembering at the end of the day, when everything else has blurred into noise.
Sometimes I wonder if you ever notice things about me too , if you could list them, the way I could list you. Probably not. You’re lucky like that, able to just live without overthinking every heartbeat.
Anyway. That’s all. Just small things.
Small, stupid, unforgettable things.
T.
[March 12]
Dear K,
You always said it would be you and me , that no matter how things changed, we’d figure it out together. I used to believe that like it was gospel, like the kind of truth that doesn’t need to be questioned.
Maybe that was selfish. Maybe I held on too tightly to something you never meant the way I heard it.
I didn’t even want to go to that party, remember? But how could I ever say no to you. I told myself it would be fine, just music, noise, a few drinks. Should’ve trusted myself, because look at me now.
You’d barely been there ten minutes before Jiung found you. I hadn’t met him before, but I knew of him, the way people talked, the way you said his name with a grin tucked into it.
You waved me over, all brightness, that unstoppable energy that makes everyone feel chosen for a second. “Theo, this is Jiung,” you said, your hand still on his shoulder like it belonged there.
I smiled, said all the right polite things. Jiung is nice, no one could deny that. Soft-spoken, easy laugh, the kind of person who fills a room without trying. I saw you with him, leaning close, laughing about something only the two of you understood. And maybe that’s what scares me the most, how naturally you fit together, like there was already a rhythm I’d never learned.
You kept saying his name like it tasted good in your mouth. Maybe that’s what did it, the way you looked so easy, so open. The way I realized I don’t make you look like that.
I told you I liked seeing you happy, and it was true, mostly. But there was a crack somewhere in the middle of the sentence that even I could hear. You didn’t notice, thank God, because I don’t think I could’ve explained what was breaking.
This is supposed to help me get over whatever this is, these letters, these thoughts. But I’m writing another one, and it’s the first time it actually hurts to start with your name.
Maybe you were right. Maybe it was always going to be you and me, until it wasn’t.
Maybe this isn’t such a great idea after all.
T.
[March 12, again]
Dear K,
The music’s still stuck in my head, even though the party ended hours ago. I can still hear the bass under my skin, the echo of your laugh cutting through it like a melody I can’t forget. I tried to drown it out with silence, but it keeps finding a way back.
You texted me after you got home , just a simple “did you get back safe?”, and I stared at it for ten whole minutes before typing “yeah, all good.” You sent a heart. I should’ve turned my phone off right then, before I started wondering if it meant anything.
You looked happy last night. Really happy. I don’t even mean that bitterly , it’s the truth. Watching you with Jiung felt like watching sunlight through water: too bright, too far, too filtered to reach me.
I stood outside for a while after you left, pretending I was waiting for a cab when I just needed a moment to breathe. There was glitter on my sleeve , I think from when you leaned on me earlier, laughing at something dumb I said. I brushed it off, but a few pieces stayed. Maybe that’s fitting. The parts of you that stick never really ask permission.
I wish I could tell you that I’m happy for you without lying. I wish that wanting you didn’t feel like losing you.
You always tell me I overthink everything. Maybe you’re right. But maybe this is what happens when you hand someone your favorite song and watch them dance to it with someone else.
I’ll be fine, eventually. I just need tonight to stop replaying in my head.
T.
[April 2]
There are so many things I want to say to you , so many unsaid words, bitten tongues, chewed‑back sentences that I swallow so hard I swear my throat will always ache from it.
Things such as: you are beautiful. Your smile brightens up my life. You are the sun in my darkest nights.
Instead I say things like: good game today. Yeah, you can copy my essay. Yes, I’ll come with you to his party.
Things such as: I wish it were me you were looking at like that. I wish it were my hand you were holding. I wish it were my lips you dreamt of kissing.
Instead I say: yeah, you two would look good together. No, you can totally tell he’s got a crush on you. You should really go for it. Really.
Things such as: I love you so much that I hate you. I love you so much that I hate him. I love you so much that I hate myself.
Instead I say: wow, I’m so happy for you. No, it’s okay , I can go to the movies alone. Don’t worry about me. Have fun.
And maybe one day I’ll finally stop rehearsing the things I never say.
Maybe one day, everything will stop sounding like your name.
[April 24]
Dear K,
I said I’d stop writing these. I really meant it this time. I even hid the notebook somewhere I wouldn’t find it , bottom drawer, under a pile of old class notes. But here I am again, because apparently moving on looks a lot like giving up and still writing anyway. This one is not making it in the notebook, this one is written on a random piece of paper because I need to write it or I swear my heart will bleed out.
You’re laughing today. Loud, reckless, like you don’t notice my heart drop. I hate that you still don’t know. Or maybe I love that you don’t.
It’s been sometime we’ve spent a day just the two of us, you’ve been busy lately. Practice, plans, late-night calls that aren’t with me. I tell myself it’s normal, people drift, schedules fill, life keeps moving. And still, every time my phone lights up, I hope it’s you.
I ran into Jiung yesterday. He asked if I was coming to your next game, said you’d been practicing nonstop. He smiled when he mentioned you. I smiled back. Funny how easy it’s gotten to lie.
I think about throwing out all the drafts that start with your name. There’s a hundred versions of this same letter, same ache, different words. It never gets better. It just gets quieter.
Maybe that’s progress. Maybe not.
I keep waiting for the moment you’ll stop feeling like a ghost that sits at the back of every sentence I write. Maybe when that happens, I’ll be able to say your name out loud without wanting to disappear right after.
Anyway. Consider this one a relapse. I say “it’s the last time” but both of us know it isn’t.
T.
[February 17]
Theo,
You’ll laugh if you ever read this, the other day we made fun of people keeping a diary because we’re not twelve anymore but I didn't tell you I've had one for years now. It’s great to write when i don’t know where to put my thoughts. I don’t often get it out, though. It’s been a while since I’ve used this one. I’m only writing because I can’t sleep and you’re not answering your phone (again)
We hung out today, and you bought me coffee even though I said I wasn’t cold. I swear you do that just so you can hand me the cup and feel good about yourself, you love reminding me that you’re older and should take care of me, even if you’re like, only two months older
You always make things easy. That’s what I love about being around you, how the world never feels too loud when you’re there. I mean love in the safe, normal way, obviously. Don’t roll your eyes.
Anyway. I just wanted to write something that reminded me of this evening. Just in case you forget, you never realize how much light you bring with you.
[March 10]
I think I have a crush, maybe. Or I think I do. Jiung’s funny, clever, calm, he knows how to listen without making it awkward. Being around him feels easy. Not like you, but still easy.
We’ve been texting more lately, and sometimes I catch myself smiling at my phone like an idiot. But it’s weird, because half the time I’m not even replying to him, I’m thinking about what you’d say if you saw the messages.
You’d tease me. You always do.
The strange thing is I like him, I truly do, I sometimes catch myself thinking about you, comparing everything to you. The way his laugh is high pitched while yours is breathier. the way his hands are soft while yours are calloused because of your guitar. The way he helps me practice my pitch by making backhanded compliments, when you would just straight up tell me if I messed up.
Every time I imagine what I would feel like to kiss him, to hold his hand, my mind somehow thinks of your lips, of your hands.
It’s been years and I should move on but. hey.
Anyway, he’s invited me to some party he’s throwing so maybe if I get a little closer to him I’ll get over you.
Maybe.
[April 3]
Tonight Jiung told me about his boyfriend, I didn’t even know he had one. He said it so casually, mid-sentence, like it was obvious all along. And I laughed and said, “that’s great.”
It didn’t even hurt, the way I thought it would hurt.
I guess whatever I thought I was feeling for him wasn’t that important after all. Maybe I just liked the idea of being liked. Maybe I was trying to convince myself that I could be wanted by someone.
Anyway, It’s fine. You’d tell me to stop overthinking it. So I will. I’ll try, at least.
[April 28]
I don’t really know how to start this.
You’re the one who does words, Theo. You make things sound lighter than they actually are. I keep trying to do that too, but every sentence feels like it’s carrying too much.
I found one of your letters. Not on purpose. It was sticking out of your music book the other day when you left for the practice room. I shouldn’t have read it, I know. I only got through the first few lines before everything inside me just... stopped. I shouldn’t have read it. I keep telling myself I’ll forget, but , God, Theo. You wrote like you were bleeding
It didn’t even feel like reading something private , it felt like opening a window and realizing I’d been standing outside it this whole time.
You wrote that you were trying to stop thinking about me. And now that’s all I’ve been doing since.
All this time, I thought I was the only one keeping quiet.
I don’t even know what to do with these words now. I can’t unsee them. I can’t look at you without hearing them in your voice.
I keep wondering how you managed to look at me every day after writing that and still smile like nothing was heavy between us. I don’t think I could’ve done it.
I keep replaying every little moment, trying to figure out how I could’ve missed it, how I could’ve looked at you every day and still not seen it. Because maybe that’s the part that hurts most. That you could feel all of that, and I made you think it wasn’t safe to tell me, that it wasn’t reciprocated.
Maybe it’s just me wanting you to know that you weren’t the only one standing there alone. I just didn’t realize we were facing the same direction.
I want to call you, but what would I say? I read the letter you hid from me? I think I’ve been in love with you too?
It sounds ridiculous even here.
You always say I talk too much. Now I have no idea how to start
[May 1st]
We said once that we’d always find our way back to each other. I meant it, too, not because I believed in fate or anything dramatic, but because it felt true in the simplest sense. You’ve been my constant for so long, I don’t know what I’d do if you stopped being there.
Now that I’ve read your words, I see it differently. Maybe we weren’t supposed to “find our way back.” Maybe we were never really gone; we just didn’t know where we were standing. On the same ground the whole time, facing the same direction, pretending not to notice.
I keep rehearsing what I’d say if I told you, how to begin without hurting either of us. The truth sounds too small or too big, depending on the minute.
What I know is this: I’ve loved you for years. I just didn’t have the right words for it until I saw yours.
I don’t want to lose you because of this. But maybe not saying anything has already been its own way of losing you.
Maybe this isn’t something I can keep quiet anymore.
[May 1st]
Dear K,
Something’s different. I can’t tell if it’s in the way you talk to me now or how careful you sound when you laugh, like you’re measuring how loud you’re allowed to be around me.
You looked at me differently today. Not like you were trying to figure me out, not like pity either , just seeing me, the way sunlight hits a mirror and stays a second too long.
I keep thinking maybe I imagine it, that you’re just tired, or distant, or busy. But every word out of your mouth feels like it’s tiptoeing around something we both can’t name.
You asked me, like it was nothing, what it is that I was writing, because you’ve seen me carrying a notebook around lately. I swear my heart dropped. Because I couldn’t find the last letter I wrote you, I swore I’ve put it back in the notebook but I can’t find it.
Part of me wanted to ask if you found it. The letter. The one I shouldn’t have written, shouldn’t have kept, shouldn’t have let anywhere near where you could see it. But then you smiled, gentle, easy, and I couldn’t. My throat just closed up around your name again.
For the first time, I don’t know what I want. For you to have read it or for you not to have read it. Both feel terrifying for different reasons.
All I know is that every time you look at me now, I forget which version of me you’re seeing, the one smiling beside you, or the one who wrote everything he swore he’d never say out loud.
If you did find it...
please don’t pretend you didn’t.
T.
[May 2]
Theo,
I know I’m making things weird right now, and I don’t trust myself to say this out loud, so here I am. You said one day that what you liked about me was that I was honest, that I didn’t know how to pretend. So I won’t.
I am leaving this letter on your desk for you to find, fo you to read, on purpose.
I read the letter. The one you I think you hoped I’d never see. I’ve read it a few times, actually, every line opens differently depending on the day. Some mornings it breaks me. Tonight, it makes everything make sense.
I keep thinking about how long we’ve been circling the same thing, both of us pretending it was just gravity, not a choice. Every joke we didn’t finish, every almost‑touch we brushed off, every word you swallowed, it all lines up now.
I don’t know when I fell in love with you. Maybe it was the night you stayed up with me when I couldn’t sleep before a game. Maybe it was all the times you said “you’re okay” because you knew I wasn’t. Maybe it was always there, quiet, waiting for permission.
I used to tell myself you only saw me as your favorite person in a comfortable way, and that was enough. It wasn’t, really, but I told myself it was. Because I didn’t think you could ever look at me like I look at you.
Now I know you did.
Jiung was never what you thought. He’s a friend. He already has someone, and I’m glad he does. The crush I thought I had was never really about him; it was about wanting to feel something simple when everything about you was complicated.
You once said silence meant comfort. I used to believe that too, until it started feeling like punishment. I don’t want that kind of quiet between us anymore.
You don’t have to say anything. You never do, not until you’re ready. I just need you to know that everything you wrote , every version of I love you you never said, I’ve been trying to say it, too, for years.
When you’re ready, come find me.
Keeho
[May 2]
Keeho,
I found your letter. You left it on my desk like it’s always belonged there, like it was just waiting its turn. I think I read it ten times before I let myself breathe again.
You said you didn’t know when you fell in love with me. I don’t know when I did, either. Maybe when you first dragged me in the haunted house, remember that ? both of us terrified but pretending we weren’t. Maybe when you started letting me choose the window seat so I wouldn’t get carsick. Maybe just from the start, when I didn’t even know what to call it yet.
It always felt safer to keep it as “you and me.” Saying more out loud felt like tempting fate, like naming it would make it disappear. But reading your words, every piece of me that I’ve been trying to quiet just… stopped fighting.
You said you don’t want silence anymore. Neither do I. You’ve always been the sound in every version of my quiet.
I don’t know how this works from here, what we call it, what happens next. I just know that when you said come find me, it didn’t sound like a challenge. It sounded like home.
So, I’m coming.
Theo