The One I Should Have Chosen
I never expected to see his handwriting again. It arrived on an
ordinary Thursday-sandwiched between a water bill and a
grocery flyer-yet it stopped time the moment I saw my name
written in the looping, unmistakable scrawl of a man I once loved
more than breath. My heart stuttered in my chest as I turned the
envelope over, fingers trembling with the weight of a decade left
unopened. I had spent years perfecting the art of forgetting-
burying memories beneath routines, responsibilities, and the safety
of a life I thought I had chosen wisely. But grief for something you
never truly lost is a strange thing; it lies dormant until stirred, and
then it roars.
The letter sat on my kitchen counter for hours as I paced the floor,
the past knocking louder with every passing minute. I remembered
the way he used to write me poems on napkins, the sound of his
laugh echoing through my apartment, the feel of his hand in mine
when we were still brave and foolish enough to believe love was
enough. And then I remembered the day I let him go-the day I
chose someone else because it was safer, more certain, and what
everyone told me was "right." I thought time would heal the
questions I never dared to ask, the words I never dared to say. But
as I finally opened that letter, I knew the truth: time had only
buried them deeper.
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