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I write things I could never say to you. I leave them anonymously, somewhere among thousands of other beautiful and heartbreaking words, and for a little while I let myself believe that maybe, somehow, you might stumble across mine. Maybe you’d read a sentence and pause. Maybe something in it would feel strangely familiar. Maybe you’d recognise yourself between the lines. It’s the only place I let myself tell the truth. But today I had a thought that scared me. What if one day, among all those anonymous words, we actually found each other? What if I came across your words and knew they were yours before I ever knew your name? What if I recognised you in the things you couldn’t say out loud? And what if, while I had been filling page after page with everything I could never tell you, you had been filling yours with someone else? I don’t know what would hurt more, finding your words, or reading them and realising they were never written for me. Because behind every anonymous word I’ve written, there has only ever been one person I was secretly hoping would read them. You. And maybe the cruelest ending to our story would be finding you there at last, line by line, sentence by sentence, only to realise that all this time, while I was leaving pieces of my heart between the lines, you were leaving yours between the lines for someone else. And you’d finally read everything I was too afraid to say… and you’d know it was you. You’d finally know that every anonymous word, every hidden confession, every unsent sentence had been written with you in mind. And I’d have to wonder if you would ever understand how heartbreaking it is to finally be found… only to realise that, in all the words we wrote, I was never the one you were writing for.
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