It’s in a book that has been in my overflowing bedside drawer since I moved here almost seven years ago. Before that, it was in my bedside drawer where I used to live.
Time and again I had put pen to paper trying to express my emotions in a way that you might understand.
I thought about whether to print or write, what kind of paper to use. I must have ripped up a thousand pages before I finally put it aside and closed the cover of the notebook.
After pouring my heart out in words, one of my friends told me never to send the letter to you.
So I didn’t.
Instead I was the coy girl. The smart, sarcastic one. The one with a wall just high enough you thought maybe you could climb it, but half-way there, you decided it wasn’t worth it.
Over a relaxing meal with old friends today, we reminisced about some of the silly things that we did in our youth. We were daring and carefree, and a bit naughty at times. Despite it all, I have very few regrets.
But I regret not sending you that letter.
I regret letting someone else’s opinion limit my emotional risk-taking. For without great risk, there can be no great love, no grand fulfillment, and no happily ever after.
So my darlings, as the sun casts long shadows and the dusk strokes the awakening spring buds, I think of you, out there somewhere. Perhaps that letter is my only regret, and the space in your heart that does not know you were loved.