Not everything needed to be shared. Some words weren’t meant for a stage.
Some truths Aarav had carried for years—too personal, too painful, too sacred. And so, he wrote letters. Dozens of them. In the quiet corners of his hill house, by candlelight, in the hush between thunder and mist.
He never posted them. He never intended to.
He kept them in a wooden drawer. Labeled: Letters Never Sent.
To Ma
You taught me that silence isn’t weakness. But I wish you had taught me when to break it. I still feel you in the wind sometimes. In the way leaves fall. I wish you had seen the school we built. I named one of the trees after you. The strongest one.
To the Factory Boy Who Died in the Fire
You were fifteen. You were a poet. I only learned your name after your mother screamed it in court. I
