Elia didn't plan to write it.
It just happened.
One night, after seeing Kael's newest post—him laughing, her beside him, the caption reading "Some people just feel like home"—Elia opened her notes app and started typing.
She didn't think.
She just wrote.
> "I don't know if you'll ever read this.
> I don't know if I even want you to.
> But I need to say it somewhere."
She poured everything out.
The way her heart used to skip when his name lit up her screen.
The way she memorized his laugh, his hoodie, his playlist titles.
The way she still looked for him in crowds, even when she promised herself she wouldn't.
She wrote about the rooftop.
The birthday he forgot.
The fight that broke them.
The silence that followed.
> "You made me feel like I was too much.
> But I was just trying to love you in the only way I knew how."
She wrote about the girl in his stories.
How she didn't hate her.
How she just wished it had been her.
She wrote about the photos she deleted.
The ones she couldn't.
The ones that still lived in her mind.
> "I don't blame you.
> I just wish you had said goodbye."
She wrote until her fingers ached.
Until her heart felt lighter.
Until the pain turned into something she could hold.
Then she stared at the screen.
Read it back.
And cried.
Not because she wanted him back.
But because she finally understood:
She had loved deeply.
And that mattered.
She didn't send it.
She didn't save it.
She just copied it into her sketchpad, folded the page, and tucked it behind her favorite drawing.
A girl under the moon.
Alone.
But glowing.
Because some letters aren't meant to be read.
They're meant to be written.
To remind you that your feelings are real.
That your love was honest.
That your story mattered—even if it didn't get a reply.