Chapter 10: The Letter He Never Sent
1185 Words
The letter came in a box.
Not an envelope. Not slipped under a door. Not sent by email or courier. A box—plain, unassuming, and left on my desk one rainy morning when Rafael was away at a meeting.
I didn’t recognize the handwriting on the note taped to the top until I read the name signed at the bottom:
Lucía.
His sister.
We’d only spoken a few times—short, polite conversations at formal dinners or over rushed phone calls when Rafael was too busy. But this felt different. Intimate.
I peeled the note free.
He wrote this before your wedding. He never intended for you to read it. But I think you should.
Inside the box was a single sheet of folded paper, yellowed slightly with time.
I held it in my hands for several minutes, heart thudding.
Then I opened it.
Samira,
By the time you read this, it’s possible I’ll already be married to you. Or maybe you’ll never see these words. Maybe I’ll be too much of a coward to let you.
But there are things I need to say.
I agreed to the contract marriage because of my father. That’s the truth. But I chose you because of me.
You probably think I didn’t care. That I was cold and calculated. That I only saw your name on paper and signed mine beside it to gain something.
But before the contract, before the signatures and the lawyers and the clauses—I saw you.
Baguio. Bookstore. You were reading Salinger.
You smiled at a child who bumped into you, spilled coffee on your sleeve, and apologized like the world had ended. And you laughed. Not at him, but with him. I remember thinking, "God, what would it feel like to deserve someone like her?"
I didn’t say anything then. I should’ve. Maybe it would’ve made all of this easier.
But I kept watching. I asked who you were. When I realized you were Navarro’s daughter—the same man my father was targeting—I felt sick. Because suddenly it wasn’t just business. It was personal.
Then came the offer. The contract. The deal. And I said yes.
Not to trap you. Not to hurt you. But because I was selfish. Because I wanted a way to be close to you, even if it meant lying to myself and to you.
I told myself I could stay distant. That I wouldn’t get attached.
Then you walked down the aisle, and everything inside me broke.
You were breathtaking. Not just beautiful. Breathtaking.
And I couldn’t tell you any of this. Not without ruining everything. Not without risking the way you looked at me.
So I stayed silent. And I let you think I didn’t care.
But every night you fell asleep first, I watched you. Every morning you left coffee for me, I saved the note. Every time you laughed at my sarcasm, something in me softened.
I’ve never wanted anything more than I wanted you to stay.
But I didn’t ask. Because I thought I didn’t deserve to.
And if we reach the end of this contract and you leave... I won’t stop you.
But I will regret it. Every day. For the rest of my life.
Rafael.
The letter blurred through my tears.
All this time, I’d wondered.
Wondered if I’d been the only one to fall. Wondered if what we had was one-sided, born of necessity and not real affection.
But this? This was a man unraveling himself on paper.
This was truth.
This was love.
Long before I ever realized it.
When Rafael came home, I was sitting on the edge of our bed, the letter clutched to my chest.
He paused in the doorway, rainwater dripping from his coat. One look at me and his expression changed.
“You found it,” he said softly.
“You weren’t going to show me.”
He took a step forward. “I couldn’t. Not after everything. Not when I thought I’d already ruined us.”
I stood. “You didn’t ruin anything. You just kept loving me in silence.”
He nodded. “I thought silence would protect you. That if I told you too soon, it would scare you away.”
“It nearly did.”
“I know.”
I walked to him.
Held out the letter.
He took it with trembling hands.
“This version of you,” I whispered, “the one who wrote this… I wish I’d met him sooner.”
He looked into my eyes. “You did. You just didn’t know yet.”
That night, we sat on the couch with mugs of tea and a silence that was no longer heavy. Just full. Full of words we’d already shared, spoken and unspoken.
“Do you want to write one?” I asked. “A letter to me. Now. Not the past version. Not the coward.”
He raised an eyebrow. “To you?”
I nodded. “For the journal.”
He grinned. “Only if you write one back.”
We agreed.
We wrote in silence, side by side.
And when we finished, we swapped pages.
I read his first:
Samira,
I love you now more than I ever thought possible.
You’ve made me softer. Braver. You’ve made me want to be the kind of man who earns your trust every day. Not because I have to. Because I want to.
You are my beginning. And every ending I feared is just another chance to choose you again.
Thank you for not walking away.
Rafael.
My chest ached in the best way.
I handed him mine:
Rafael,
I used to believe love was supposed to be loud. Fireworks and declarations and storms.
But you taught me that love can be quiet, too. Patient. Steady. A whisper in the dark that says, "I’m not going anywhere."
You were my hardest lesson. And my best one.
I love you. No contracts. No conditions. No expiration date.
Samira.
We kissed, deeply.
And for the first time in a long time, we didn’t need to say anything more.
A week later, I got a call from my father.
His voice was calm. Steady.
“I spoke to Rafael,” he said. “About the partnership. He turned it down.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“He said you didn’t need anyone saving you anymore. That you’d find your own way.”
Tears sprang to my eyes.
Because Rafael understood.
Because he believed in me.
Because he was letting me shine without standing in my light.
The letter never left my journal.
Sometimes I reread it when doubt creeps in.
When we argue about furniture or schedules or whether the AC is too cold.
It reminds me of who we were.
Of the man who loved me before he even had the right to.
Of the woman who chose him, despite everything.
It reminds me that even when love is hidden, buried, or unspoken—it’s still there.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be read.
And never, ever fading.
- Writer
