I Wrote To You Everyday For A Year Novels & Stories

As sad as it may sound, it was as if she was right here with me. Sitting inside the waiting room, I decided to write her an email. I had been sending her emails every day for the past week, but she never sent anything back. She probably didn't even read them. This, however, would be the last email I’d write to her. I had made a promise to myself. The moment this plane takes off, that's where our story ends. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Eight Years Ago I keep a diary in which I write to Tim every day to tell him that I love him. First, I recount my day, and then I add a note so he knows. They're really letters, but I can't send them to him. So, I write them all in a notebook. When I turn eighteen and leave the orphanage, I can give them all to him at once.

Just something bare and honest. "That was the last one," he said to me. "Last what?" I asked. "Letter... I wrote her. I wrote every week for a year after she died. I never sent them. I mean, what address would I have sent it to? He said laughing at his on sarcasm. Then his expression shifted into something hurt and wounded. “It was just how I coped." He was perched on the edge of the couch, his hands rubbing together. "But I never told anyone anything. Not even Sami."

I take the elevator up to my room, unlock the door with my personal key and slam it shut behind me. Setting down the bottle of Guinness I took with me from the bar, I drop to my desk chair with an exasperated sigh. My box of letters peaks out underneath my bed and I frown, not remembering the last time I wrote Him a letter. Writing a letter to Him every day had become a habit since he left. He reads them, I'm sure of it, and I've kept every single letter stored up in a box. I'd tell him how my day went, like I always did when he was still around. At least that's what my therapist told me to do, and somehow, it's comforting.

“What do you mean I never wrote to you!?” Things got heated between us in no time. “I wrote to you every week. There were nights when I could not sleep, not because I was physically injured but because of the silence from your end. Even when you were not responding and my wolf was too embarrassed to keep sending letters into a void, I still wrote to you. You are the one who never responded!”

My heart squeezed even harder in my chest, but it was 3 years there was no excuse good enough "You didn't have a phone? An internet connection? Smoke signals?" "I wrote letters, Lily," he said to me, his voice now gruff. "I wrote dozens of them. I wrote to you every week for months." The words burned like a slap. "What?" "Yeah. I thought—I thought you were ignoring me. I waited, every damn day, thinking you'd write back. I thought… you moved on." I shook my head, the world spinning. "I never got a single one."

I write to her probably about anything I could think of or how my days at work would be or where I am when I'm currently writing her my letter. The first letter I wrote to her, I honestly had many scratches of paper. I wasn't good, I tell you. I would always end up having erasures then I'd write the whole letter again because I don't want any mistake on it so I took a lot of hours writing it. It was pretty tiring but it was the only way to talk to her. Even though I know I've broken up with Dakota two years ago, I kind of gotten used to sending her love letters and for some reason it is cute.

I opened my laptop to send the last mail. Dear Pia, Looks like you have moved on and didn’t read even one of my letters for the past two years. Even though I have been writing from one side it actually felt like I was talking to you. I started these to not lose you as a friend but recollecting all the memories I have actually fell for you. I waited for you to reply me but you didn’t. Looks like I chose the wrong mode to express my feelings. My mistakes count reached another new level by this.

“Day 30. Caroline, I want to hug you.” I exhaled shakily as I kept scrolling. Message after message, day after day—he had written to me every single day. I hadn’t even realized my tears were falling until they blurred my vision. “Day 700. I’m about to lose hope that you’ll ever come back to me.” I wiped my tears, but my chest ached as I read through everything. It was as if he had turned my inbox into a daily diary—updating me on his life, even without a response.

The timestamp showed these messages were sent three years ago, just two days before she went to prison. She scrolled past the old messages and typed a reply. [I'm here.] In less than thirty seconds, a new message popped up. [Royce, finally! Where have you been these last three years? Did you forget your password or something?] Jessie ignored the questions. [What do you want?] [Do you remember those three drafts you gave me three years ago?] [Of course. You never paid me.] [I wanted to, but you disappeared, and I couldn't reach you at all.]