Chapter 34 – "The Things We Don't Take Back"
It was a quiet evening, the kind that stretches endlessly, where even the ticking clock feels too loud. The sun had set hours ago, and the city outside my window hummed with distant life—cars passing, a faint siren, laughter from a far-off apartment. But in my room, everything stood still.
I was searching for an old journal when I found it—your hoodie.
It had slipped behind a pile of books in my closet, almost like it had been hiding all this time. I stared at it for a long while. Navy blue. Faded at the sleeves. A tiny tear by the collar. Nothing special to anyone else, but to me, it was a chapter. A memory stitched in cotton.
I pulled it out, held it close. The scent was long gone. Just fabric now. But somehow, it still felt like you.
And suddenly, I was seventeen again. You'd let me borrow it on a rainy day when I forgot my jacket. I remember how oversized it was, how it drowned my frame, how you laughed and told me, "Now it's yours. Rainproof and heartbreak-proof."
You were wrong about the second part.
I sat on the floor with that hoodie in my lap, and for a while, I didn't move. I didn't cry either. Maybe I was tired of crying. Or maybe there was nothing left in me to cry out.
Instead, I reached for my box—the one filled with unsent letters. I pulled out a fresh page. No date. No address. Just ink and a few more words you'd never read.
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"Dear you,"
"Some ghosts don't haunt us. We carry them willingly."
"You left, or maybe I let you go. Or maybe we both just stood still and let time pull us apart. We never really said goodbye, did we? Just silence. Just space."
"I said things I shouldn't have. You did too. We hurt each other because we didn't know how to say we were hurting. We used pride like a shield and sarcasm like a weapon. And even when we missed each other, we waited. Too long. Too stubborn."
"I used to replay our arguments, thinking if I could just go back and say the right thing, maybe the ending would be different. But I've stopped doing that. I don't want to rewrite the past anymore. I just want to understand it."
"There are things I wish I could take back. But maybe some things aren't meant to be undone. Maybe they shape us more than the good parts ever could."
"I hope you're okay. I hope you're happy. And I hope—just sometimes—you remember me too."
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I folded the letter slowly and slipped it into the hoodie's front pocket.
It felt like closure. Not the kind they show in movies—no dramatic reunion, no tearful hug in the rain. Just me, a page, and a piece of you I'd somehow held on to all these years.
I didn't put the hoodie back.
I walked out to the balcony, hoodie in hand, and stared up at the stars.
Then I whispered to the night, "Thank you for loving me when you did. And for leaving when it was time."
And just like that… I let it go.
Some people don't come back. Some apologies stay unsaid.
And some letters are meant to be written—not answered.