“The Letter She Never Sent” By Arowolo Adeyemi Olasunkanmi

 

Sharon stood at the edge of the old wooden bridge, the river beneath murmuring secrets only silence could understand. In her hand was a letter creased, faded, and trembling in the wind. She had written it ten years ago but never mailed it. Tonight, she was ready.

Mark always said life was short, but she never listened. Now, life had proved him right.

Ten years earlier, they were inseparable Sharon and Mark, two halves of a complicated whole. They met in college, fought like fire and oil, loved like thunder and lightning, and dreamed like children. Mark had a wild heart. Sharon, a cautious soul. He wanted to backpack across Africa; she wanted to work in a publishing house. He believed in the moment. She believed in the plan.

Their last night together was soaked in wine and unsaid things.

“I’m leaving for Ghana next week,” he had said, eyes scanning her face like he was memorizing the parts he’d miss.

She swallowed hard, arms folded tightly. “What about the job in London?”

He laughed soft and sad. “You mean the job you want me to take?”

Silence had filled the room like smoke, choking the goodbye neither of them said. When he left the next morning, the air was still warm with words unspoken. She watched him go from the window and told herself he’d call. He didn’t.

She had written the letter two weeks later, pouring everything she couldn't say out loud. That she missed him. That she was scared. That she loved him still. But instead of mailing it, she folded it, slipped it into a book, and shelved it with all the “what-ifs” she pretended didn’t exist.

Years passed. She moved to London, like she always planned. Built her career. Bought a flat. Hosted wine nights with colleagues. Smiled in photographs. But something in her was always looking over her shoulder.

Then, last week, she saw his name in a headline:
"Mark Olumide, 35, Dies in Motorcycle Crash in Kenya."

Her heart cracked open like dry earth in rain.

She hadn’t known he stayed in Africa. That he’d started a small wildlife nonprofit Organization. That he’d been engaged to someone named Thandiwe. That he’d made a life without her.

Grief is a strange thing. It sneaks into the spaces you left for someone else and floods them. For days, she walked around London with a ghost beside her. His laugh echoed in elevators. His voice whispered in cafés. Every song, every smell, every memory turned traitor.

Yesterday, she found the letter.

It fell out of a book she hadn’t opened in years. Her handwriting stared back at her, raw and honest. She sat for hours, reading and rereading it, aching for a second chance that wouldn’t come.

And now, here she was. At the bridge where they once carved their names into the wood, where they shared their first kiss under a thunderstorm. Where he told her, “Even if we don’t end up together, know that I loved you like crazy.”

She took a shaky breath.

“I should’ve sent it, Mark,” she whispered. “I should’ve let you know.”

She unfolded the letter. The ink was still legible, though slightly smudged from her thumb.

Dear Mark,
I miss you. More than I thought I would. I pretend I’m okay, but I’m not. You left, and everything still moves around me, but I feel stuck. Like I’m watching life happen from behind glass.
I’m sorry for trying to mold you into my plan. You were never meant to fit into a box. You’re the wind, Mark. I should’ve let you fly.
I still love you. God, I love you so much it hurts. And if you’re reading this, it means I found the courage I didn’t have before. Maybe it’s not too late.
Love,
Sharon

She let the paper fall.

It twirled in the air like a fragile feather before touching the river. It floated briefly, then dissolved into the current, joining the other regrets it had likely swallowed before.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, but she didn’t wipe them.

“Goodbye, Mark.”

The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of rain and earth. Somewhere in the distance, thunder grumbled a faint echo of that night under the storm.

As she turned to leave, something in her felt lighter. Not healed. Not whole. But honest.

Some regrets live forever, she realized. But so do the memories.

And sometimes, that's all we get.