Letter to THAT woman

You won’t receive this, I expect. Or maybe you will—but only through the wind or the silence between your thoughts. I probably won't send it to you.

This isn’t a plea.

It’s not a protest.

It’s just something I need to write so the pain doesn’t stay lodged inside my ribs forever.

The truth is—I’m still in love with you. I wish I weren’t. I wish I could press a switch and make the feelings un-feel. But that’s not how I’m built. My heart isn’t a department store with neat closing hours. It stays open, often longer than it should.

I don’t even know what we were. Friends, perhaps. Companions on a few lovely dates. Nothing official. No promises. And yet… there were those hugs. The one after our first date. The rush of your arms around me. The easy way we laughed together, like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in lifetimes. You sat beside me so closely, and I let myself believe that maybe I’d found something gentle and rare.

Then I leaned in to kiss you, and you flinched like I’d become a stranger. And maybe I had.

I apologised, deeply. Maybe too deeply. Because what I was really apologising for wasn’t the kiss.

It was for daring to hope.

You said nothing for days. Then, weeks later, you invited me for coffee. I was giddy, like a teenager. And then I followed you through Go!, then a fabric store, watched you help me choose bedding. That’s the kind of memory my heart files under “almost home.”

You told me your friends were always pressuring you to find a man, and yet you usually preferred to be single.

And then—another date, a familiar table. This time you let me hold your hand, only to say, “Sorry.”

You went home and sent me those kind, final messages. You told me you didn’t want to hurt me.

But the next day, you were back on VietnamCupid. Not preferring to be single.

That part—God, that part was hard. Not because you owe me anything. But because I’d been gently placed in the friendzone and still didn’t know how to breathe properly.

Then, just as the hurt began to harden into scar tissue, you reappeared. Coffee again. Richard beside you. And later that same day, you somehow found me at Aussie Burgers and took me to a restaurant by the lake.

It was beautiful. It was incredibly romantic. The sun had set, yet the sky had pink fluffy clouds that some workmen had obviously stood on your roof and spray painted.

And I was dying.

You scrolled through my updated VietnamCupid profile, looked at the profiles of women in my stream, showed me the stream of men messaging you—and of course they would, you are extremely beautiful to Western eyes. You were radiant, you laughed easily, you gazed into my eyes and smiled that incredibly warm smile. And I? I was holding in a scream. Because every man you showed me was a knife. A reminder that someone else will get to love you the way I long to. Someone else will get your kisses. Your laughter. Your hand, not pulled away.

And still—I smiled. I nodded. I tried to be your friend.

Because I didn’t know what else to do.

But now I do.

I need to go quiet.

Not out of anger. Not to make a point. But because my heart is tired of being brave for both of us. I need to hold it gently now. Alone. I need to let it stitch itself back together, even if that healing is so slow it can only be measured in microns. I need to cry and cry and cry until I have no more tears left inside me.

You are extraordinary.

You deserve love. And I hope you find someone who makes you feel free and safe, cherished and desired.

I only ever wanted that someone to be me.

Quietly,
Lee