The therapist’s office was small but cozy. The walls were painted in a soft hue, somewhere between beige and gray, and a floor lamp cast a warm light over the corner of the couch where I usually sat. I hadn’t been here in months, convinced that I no longer needed it. But now I was back, with my heart in my hands and my eyes fixed on the floor. Even the air in the room carried a faintly familiar scent, a mix of old paper and lavender, as though everything in that space was designed to invite comfort.
“How have you been?” my therapist asked, his tone warm as always—a reminder that there was no judgment here.
“I thought I was okay, but... I relapsed.”
As the words left my mouth, I felt a pang of shame, as if admitting it were a failure. But there was also relief. I told him how I had found an old journal hidden among forgotten boxes in my closet. I didn’t remember keeping it, but there it was, like a ghost from my past. Between its pages were the first letters I had ever written for Astrid—messages I never sent because I didn’t have the courage to show her my vulnerability.
“Why did things end like this? Why wasn’t I enough?”
That thought had lingered in my mind since our relationship ended, but rereading those words made the echo unbearable.
My therapist listened attentively, his hands resting on his lap as I unraveled the details of the discovery. I told him how opening the journal felt like opening a time capsule, as though a part of me had been frozen in those pages. He suggested something that initially sounded strange but made more sense the longer I considered it: to use those letters as a starting point, a way to better understand my emotions and perhaps find closure.
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Reuniting with the Past
That night, with the journal in front of me, I began reading the letters one by one. The yellowed paper carried a faint scent of dry ink, and some of the words had faded slightly, as if time itself were trying to erase what I had been too afraid to express.
"Astrid, I thought of you more than usual today. I walked through the park where we used to go, and I could almost hear your laughter. Everything reminds me of you, and I don’t know if that’s beautiful or cruel."
Each letter was a direct hit to the chest. I had written about our happy moments, our arguments, my insecurities, which at the time seemed small but now revealed themselves as deep cracks I never knew how to mend. It was like reopening an old wound that had never truly healed.
Between the pages, I found a loose sheet covered with chaotic scribbles—a mix of thoughts and emotions I could barely make sense of. Some phrases jumped out, like cries from the past etched onto the page:The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"How do you move forward when everything pulls you back to her? How long does it take to forget? Can you ever truly forget?"
The last entry in the journal wasn’t a letter but an unfinished reflection. My handwriting was hurried, as though I had tried to write faster than my thoughts could form:
"Love shouldn’t hurt this much. But maybe if I let it go, it’ll hurt less. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know."
Reading those words, I felt a mix of sadness and compassion for my younger self. I had been so trapped in fear and insecurity that I hadn’t allowed myself to fully feel or express what was inside me.
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The Letters Never Sent
With each page I turned, I felt something shifting inside me. I had avoided facing these memories for so long that now, seeing them laid bare on paper, I couldn’t look away. As I read, I wondered how Astrid might have reacted if I had ever given her those letters. Would it have changed anything? Would she have understood what I could never say to her face?
In my next session, I brought the journal with me.
“I feel like this is dragging me back,” I admitted, placing the journal on the table between us. “But at the same time, I think I need to confront it.”
My therapist took a moment before responding, his gaze steady.
“How do you feel when you read those letters?” he asked.
“Pain, regret… and a strange sense of relief. It’s like, by writing them, some part of me found comfort, even if I never sent them.”
He nodded, his expression calm but attentive.
“Maybe that’s what you need now. Not to send them, but to give them a purpose.”
That night, after much thought, I decided to write one final letter. Not for Astrid, but for myself.
"This will be my last letter to you, Astrid. Not because I want to forget you, but because I want to remember you without pain. I loved you with everything I had, but I now understand that love also means knowing when to let go. Thank you for the moments we shared, for teaching me what it means to love. Goodbye."
As I wrote those words, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time: a gentle release, like a knot finally loosening after years of tension. I placed the letter inside the journal and closed it with a deep sigh.
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A Step Forward
Closing the journal felt like closing a chapter of my life. I didn’t know if that meant I was ready to move on, but it was a start.
In the days that followed, I began making small changes. I went out more, revisited old hobbies I had abandoned, and even signed up for a writing workshop—a space where I could pour my emotions onto the page without fear of judgment. It was there that I met Clara.
Clara was nothing like Astrid. Her dark hair framed a face that always seemed on the verge of laughter, and she wore a small star-shaped pendant that caught the light whenever she moved. She had a way of making every conversation feel meaningful, no matter how mundane the topic. At first, I resisted the idea of opening my heart again. I felt as though doing so would betray the love I still carried within me.
But Clara wasn’t a threat, nor a replacement. There were no expectations of what she should be. She was simply someone willing to listen, to be there. And for the first time, I felt that was enough.
As the sun set on yet another day, I sat on a bench after the workshop, watching the light fade into twilight. For the first time in a long while, I felt something stir within me: hope.