Writer: Sarah Mandor
Editor: Khaled Mohamed
Photographer: Rokayya Khaled
Dear,
They told me that in order to feel better, I should start writing you letters, and so I did. I did in many different forms; I made voice notes, wrote to you in my notebooks, spoke with your pictures, and even imagined you around and spoke with you, every day.
I had so many words written down, words that express anger, denial, grief, disappointment, yearning, love… A lot of love… And even more love.
I am used to writing letters to you. Ever since we met, I used to go home and write to you in my notes. I assume you may still have some of the letters I wrote and actually had the courage to give to you.
Every letter I once sent you had an advanced version I never sent. I kept my words to myself, hoping that one day, we can read them together.
I wrote about your smile, your scent, your vibes, your attitude, your voice, your mind, God, I loved writing about your mind. I wrote letters about how safe it felt having you around, how my heart was happy being next to you in any form, how sometimes I felt like the luckiest person just because I spent my time with you. I wrote poems about your features; I memorized your features by heart. If only I was an artist, I would have drawn endless portraits of you, but since I was only good with words, I painted you with them. I wrote and wrote. I thought we would be reading my letters together one day, but my letters are now hurting me. My letters will never be read by you, and you will never know what every moment around you meant to me. I can write letters about how sad this feels, how I wish you could’ve known what you really meant to me.
I had always assumed you would love yourself if you read about “you” from my perspective. Weren’t my words a reason you felt good about yourself before? Imagine if you’d read my real feelings, not only the filtered ones?
I always described you as a person who inspires the poet in me. I always pictured you in every piece I read about beauty and blessings.
I can do anything, but I can’t stop both my writings about and my feelings for you. I can’t stop them; they are the last things I have from you. They are the only things I have left.
So it’s funny: they think that writing to you would make the feelings go away, but writing only made me fall more and more in love with you.
People have always loved my words, but I loved the one who inspired me to write them.
Yours,
The one who misses you correcting her grammar.
