Chapter 3 Letters Never Sent
1055 Words
Malliah didn’t cry when Joshua left.
She didn’t know why. Maybe because the ache was too quiet, too deep. Like a tide that pulled at her chest but never broke the surface.
She sat beneath the mango tree that afternoon, notebook in her lap, the marigolds swaying beside her. She read his note again, tracing each word with her fingertip as if it might disappear. Take care of your stars. And your loneliness. They’re beautiful.
She didn’t know how loneliness could be beautiful. But she wanted to believe him.
That night, she opened the notebook and began to write—not to him, not to anyone. Just to the silence.
August 4 I don’t know what to do with this feeling. It’s not sadness. It’s not love. It’s something in between. Like missing someone who was never really yours.
She wrote every night after that. Sometimes just a sentence. Sometimes pages. She wrote about the mango tree, about the way the house felt emptier, about the stars that didn’t seem to shine as brightly without him there to notice them.
She never showed anyone the notebook.
It became her secret place. Her sanctuary.
And slowly, her words began to change. They grew bolder. More curious. Less afraid.
August 17, I think I’m starting to understand what he meant. About quiet not being empty. I’m learning to listen to the silence. It has a voice. It sounds like me.
The days after Joshua’s departure stretched like soft cotton—quiet, slow, and strangely comforting. Malliah found herself lingering in the spaces he used to occupy: the mango tree, the garden bench, the hallway where his laughter once echoed. But she didn’t dwell in sadness. She dwelled in memory.
She wrote more.
Her notebook became a mirror, a confidant, a place where she could be honest without fear of judgment. She wrote about the ache in her chest that wasn’t quite heartbreak, and the way the stars seemed to whisper his name. But she also wrote about herself—her dreams, her questions, her growing awareness that she was more than just the quiet girl in the corner.
August 22 I used to think silence was my shield. Now I think it might be my voice.
One afternoon, while sketching the mango tree in her notebook, she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up to see a boy—maybe sixteen—standing at the edge of the garden. He wore a faded blue shirt and carried a camera slung around his neck. His hair was tousled, his expression curious.
“Hi,” he said, not shy, but not bold either. “I’m Eli. My family just moved into the house across the street.”
Malliah blinked. She hadn’t noticed anyone moving in.
“I saw you drawing,” he continued. “You’re good.”
She closed the notebook instinctively. “Thanks.”
Eli didn’t press. He sat on the low stone wall that bordered the garden and began fiddling with his camera. “I take photos,” he said. “Mostly trees. And shadows. And things people don’t notice.”
Malliah tilted her head. “Why shadows?”
“They’re honest,” he said. “They don’t pretend to be anything else.”
That made her smile.
They didn’t talk much that day. But Eli returned the next afternoon. And the one after that. Sometimes he brought his camera. Sometimes he brought books. Sometimes he just sat beside her in silence, watching the marigolds sway.
Malliah didn’t know what to make of him. He was different from Joshua—less composed, more impulsive. He asked questions without fear. He laughed easily. He didn’t seem to mind her quietness.
One day, he asked, “Do you ever write about people?”
Malliah hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“Do you write about me?”
She looked at him, surprised. “Not yet.”
He grinned. “Good. That means I still have time to become interesting.”
She laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks.
The notebook began to change.
Her entries grew more layered, more curious. She wrote about Eli’s questions, about the way he saw the world through his lens. She wrote about the tension between memory and possibility. She wrote about herself—not as someone waiting, but as someone becoming.
September 3, Eli says shadows are honest. I think silence is, too. But honesty isn’t always easy. Sometimes it’s the hardest thing.
One afternoon, Eli handed her a photo. It was of the mango tree, taken from a low angle, the branches reaching toward the sky like open arms. In the corner of the frame, barely visible, was Malliah—sitting cross-legged, notebook in hand, head tilted toward the light.
“I didn’t mean to take it,” he said. “But I like it. You look like you’re listening to something no one else can hear.”
Malliah stared at the photo for a long time.
She didn’t know what she was listening to. Maybe the past. Maybe herself.
Her writing grew bolder.
She began to write letters—not to Joshua, not to Eli, but to herself. Letters she never sent. Letters that asked questions, challenged assumptions, dared to dream.
Dear Malliah, You are not a shadow. You are not silent. You are a voice waiting to be heard. Don’t be afraid to speak. Don’t be afraid to feel. Don’t be afraid of wanting.
She wrote about her desire to study literature. About her fascination with stories that lived between the lines. About her longing to understand the world not through noise, but through nuance.
She didn’t tell anyone.
Not yet.
One evening, Eli asked, “Do you ever miss him?”
Malliah didn’t answer right away. She looked at the stars, then at the notebook in her lap.
“I miss the way he saw me,” she said. “But I think I’m learning to see myself.”
Eli nodded. “That’s harder.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “But it’s worth it.”
The chapter closes with Malliah standing beneath the mango tree, notebook in hand, camera slung around her neck—Eli’s gift. She takes a photo of the sky, then writes:
September 10 I’m not waiting anymore. I’m writing. I’m listening. I’m becoming.
- Writer
