My letters
These letters are little pieces of my heart, written to the people who’ve shaped it — some still here, some long gone, and some who’ll never know these words were meant for them. I write to remember, to forgive, to thank, and sometimes just to feel close when distance or time makes that hard. These aren’t formal letters; they’re quiet conversations — full of honesty, longing, and love. Maybe you’ll read them and think of someone you miss too. Maybe you’ll feel something you haven’t let yourself feel in a while. That’s what these letters are for.
To the Young Writer Inside Me
I see you — quiet, wide-eyed, clutching your pen like it’s the only way to breathe.You write when the world is too loud, when your heart has no one to tell its stories to,when love feels like a wound you're still learning to carry with grace.You don't write for applause. You write to feel less alone in your own skin.Your poems come like rain — soft, sudden, aching.Your stories wear the perfume of sadness, not because you're broken,but because you see beauty even in the falling apart.You’ve turned longing into language.You've made heartbreak something gentle, even when it hurt like fire.
I want you to know: it's okay that you love too deeply, that you feel too much.
That your characters ache the way you do.
You are not too soft for this world — you are a mirror to it.
And what you write, even when no one reads it, is real. It matters.
Keep writing, even when your hands shake.
Even when your voice is quiet.
Even when the stories start sounding the same — because they are yours,
and that alone is reason enough to keep telling them.
One day, someone will read your words and whisper,
"I felt that too."
And on that day, you’ll know: all of it was worth it.
With love,
The version of you still writing, still feeling, still healing
To Your Voice, and Your Absence
I still hear you — not always clearly, not always kindly, but always there.In the hush between songs.In the wind that stirs the curtains when the room is quiet and I’m too still to distract myself.You arrive like a memory that never asks permission, only presence.Your voice was never just sound.It was shelter.It was the place I went when the world felt too much and I needed to feel a little less alone.Now, your absence hums louder than your laughter ever did.And yet, I still reach for you — in words, in thought, in every poem I don’t mean to write but do.
Sometimes I wonder:
Did you leave quietly, or was I just not listening loud enough when you were still here?
I wish I had recorded your voice.
But I suppose even that would ache — to press play and remember how final it all feels when it ends.
Still, I write to you,
Not expecting a reply,
You were once a sentence I waited all day to hear.
Now you’re a silence I carry like a second skin.
Only hoping that somewhere, somehow, the part of you I miss the most might hear this and remember what it meant to be heard.
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Yours Soulfully,
SK
