Dear K,
I do not know if these words will ever reach you, and perhaps that is for the best. Yet, here I am once more, compelled by some unseen force to write on this day, as I have every year since we parted ways. It has become a ritual, a habit that lingers despite the passing years, like the lingering scent of old books in a library—unchanged, unwavering. But unlike the past letters, this one is not a plea, nor a lament. It is, instead, a quiet confession and a final acknowledgment of what once was.
It is peculiar how the mind clings to memories, curating a museum of moments, some vivid, some blurred at the edges. I still remember you in your bright-colored All-Star sneakers, the jeans that bore the wear of time, and that Deep Purple shirt—a color between indigo and violet, a shade that perhaps only you could pull off with such casual grace. I see you as the girl who walked with effortless confidence, carrying books in your arms, speaking about words in ways I barely understood. Your passion for language, your devotion to Esperanto, the precision with which you wielded words, it all fascinated me. Se vi perdis la vojon, ne perdu la esperon; eĉ la ombroj servas al la lumo. I wonder if you still recall phrases like these, or if they have faded as I have faded from your life.
I was once both your friend and your lover, but above all, I was a fool. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the unrelenting need to anchor something that was meant to be free—these were my failings. I wounded you not with words, but with the weight of my insecurities, the chains of my own selfish love. And for that, K, I am sorry. No apology, however, can erase what was done. No amount of regret can restore what was lost.
I know you have long since turned away, that you no longer read my words, and in truth, that is a mercy. You should not have to carry the weight of my grief or my reminiscence. If I were to be honest, I ceased writing altogether, not only to you but to the world, for I have come to believe that I have no gift beyond causing harm. What talent I thought I had was nothing but an illusion, and in that illusion, I lost you.
Perhaps we have become strangers in all but memory. The boy you once knew and the woman you have become—two beings who no longer recognize each other, shaped by time and distance into something unrecognizable. And yet, despite the chasm between us, despite the silence, I find myself here, repeating these words like an echo from a distant past.
Every year, I have written. Every year, I have surrendered to the urge to speak to you in the only way left to me. But I suspect that I have said all of this before. It is a cycle, a ritual as predictable as the rising sun. And yet, I do not expect an answer, nor do I desire one. The only thing I wish for is your happiness—pure, untainted, and undisturbed by ghosts of the past.
Good memories remain untouched by regret, though they are accompanied by the immutable truth that we cannot rewind time, cannot undo the damage we inflicted. All we can do is carry them, cherish them, and move forward with the knowledge of what was.
If these words ever reach you, may they find you in joy, in health, in a life free from the burdens I once placed upon you. May you be surrounded by kindness, by love that does not bind but liberates.
You once told me that I would find the solution to my problems, and in the last moment we spoke, you gave me nothing but silence. It was the hardest lesson I have ever learned, and yet it was the most necessary. That silence was the greatest teacher I have ever known. Through it, I learned discipline, acceptance, and suffering. Through it, I found my path, and in that path, I found faith.
I still have your green sweater, the one that carries the scent of time and of a past life. And I still have the scarf you made for me, the one you carefully wove with imported wool. These are relics now, fragments of a history that no longer belongs to the present.
Wisdom is a path walked slowly, and under this sun, all suffering has been felt before by others. There is nothing new in pain, nor in regret. There is only the endurance to bear it, and the resilience to continue.
I still listen to those songs, the ones that colored the backdrop of our time together—These Eyes, Come Undone, Burn, Child in Time. And yes, even Nine in the Afternoon and Suddenly I See, though I imagine you have long since left them behind. Tonight, before I sleep, I will listen to Battery one last time, a song that once intertwined with our kisses in a moment of reckless eternity.
I have not loved another since you, but do not grieve for that. Love, in its truest form, is rare, and for me, it came only once. And that is enough. I no longer search, no longer expect.
I was never good for you, and I know this now as I did not know then. But now, above all else, I fear the Lord. In Him, I have found the understanding I lacked. He, the Almighty, has shown me that everything has a purpose under this sun, that all things have their time, and ours has long since passed. My greatest sin was loving you more than I loved Him, and for that, I have repented. We all have our own journey, our own story to tell, and mine will be one of faith and redemption.
So thank you, K. Thank you for existing, for being the brightest star in a part of my life that once felt endless. Thank you for what you taught me, not only when we were together, but more so in the silence that followed. In that silence, I found understanding, and in that understanding, I found my path.
Your silence must be honored, for it has been the greatest lesson of my life. And so, I write these words not to you, but to the wind, to the void, to the echoes of a time long past.
Be well, be happy, be at peace.
With nothing but respect and silent gratitude;
C. H. Barbosa
