the undefined

letters I never sent

Chapter 3: Letters I Never Sent

The air had begun to change. It wasn’t just the weather—though the skies had started to darken earlier, casting long shadows across the radio station’s walls. It was me. Something inside had started to shift, quietly, like the slow turning of a page.

I had settled into my rhythm at the internship, but it was no longer just about fulfilling a school requirement. I was starting to find a version of myself I didn’t know I’d buried—someone who liked the silence between sentences, who saw the stories behind strangers' eyes, and who sometimes, just sometimes, wanted to be seen too.

One evening after the studio closed, I sat alone in the empty editing room. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, not for work this time—but for me. I opened a new document and typed the words:

“Dear Dad…”

Then I stopped.

I hadn’t written to him in years. I didn’t even know if he’d care to read anything from me. But the silence between us had started to feel too heavy. Too unfinished.

I erased the sentence.

Instead, I began writing something else—something not addressed to anyone in particular. A journal entry? A prayer? Maybe just a moment of honesty:

“Today, I realized I still want to be held. Not by arms, but by words. Safe ones. True ones. Like the ones I write but never send.”

I closed the laptop after that. It was enough for one night.

---

Floral noticed the change in me before I did.

“You’ve been daydreaming a lot,” she said, leaning on my desk as I edited a community jingle. “Is there a man involved?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “No man. Just my thoughts.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your thoughts better not be making you cry at night again.”

“They’re not,” I promised, and it was mostly true.

But that night, I did cry a little. Not out of sadness, but because of how much I was beginning to care about things. About my work. About my future. About the idea that maybe I was meant for more.

---

Raymond and I had become an unofficial team. He handled the mic, and I handled the stories. He’d read what I wrote like it was scripture, even when it was just a thirty-second intro.

One day, he turned to me after a recording and said, “Why don’t you try voice work? Just once. For me.”

I blinked. “On air?”

He nodded.

I hesitated. I had never liked the sound of my voice.

But that afternoon, I did it. I read a short segment for a weekend teaser. It was just three sentences, but my hands were shaking.

When we finished, Raymond played it back.

And I didn’t hate it.

He looked at me. “See? What did I say?”

I smiled. “You’re annoying.”

“But I’m right.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe.”

He patted my back. “You’re better than you think, Angel.”

And for once, I believed him a little.

---

Outside of work, my family life had grown more complicated. Mama had started calling more, asking about how many boys I was “facing” at the radio station.

“No boys,” I said, every time.

She never believed me.

One evening, she called while I was walking home. The street lights flickered above me, and I could hear the distant honk of danfos in traffic.

“I had a dream,” she said.

Here we go, I thought.

“You were walking into a big room,” she continued, “wearing heels and a suit. There were white people clapping for you.”

I paused. “That’s random.”

“Not random. God is telling you something. Maybe UK? Canada?”

I smiled softly. “Maybe.”

But what I didn’t tell her was how much I wished I believed in that dream too.

---

Raymond and I grew closer in the quiet way people do when they spend too many hours laughing at the same jokes, sharing meat pies, and finishing each other’s sentences.

One Saturday, he texted:

“Come hang out. Off duty. Just vibes.”

I hesitated. It felt different. Real.

Still, I went.

We met at a small café tucked behind a bookshop. It smelled like coffee and cinnamon and nostalgia. We sat outside under an umbrella. He ordered black coffee. I ordered hot chocolate.

We talked about books. Music. Pain. He told me about his father’s silence. I told him about mine.

For a moment, it felt like something was blooming.

But then he said, “I’ve been seeing someone. It’s not serious. But… just thought I should be honest.”

I nodded too quickly. “That’s fine. We’re friends.”

And we were. I told myself that the tightness in my chest was just the wind.

---

That night, I opened my journal again.

“Letter I’ll never send #14: Today I realized that I feel too much and say too little. And maybe that’s my flaw.”

The next morning, I wore my favorite dress to the station. Floral whistled when she saw me.

“You’re glowing.”

“Thank you.”

Raymond looked at me longer than usual. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” I said. “Let’s work.”

And we did.

That day, I wrote a piece for a segment called Unsaid. It was a monologue from a fictional character who regrets not telling someone how they felt.

Raymond read it live on air.

His voice caught slightly at the end.

After the segment, he walked up to me.

“Did you write that for anyone?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Don’t we all have something unsaid?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

---

Weeks passed. The internship drew closer to its end.

I got a message from my course adviser reminding me to submit my logbook. The thought of returning to campus made my stomach twist. I had found a rhythm here. A pulse.

One Thursday, we had our final intern review.

Our supervisor called me “quiet but consistent.” He said my scripts had grown deeper. “You don’t just write,” he said. “You speak to people.”

I smiled.

Afterwards, Raymond took me to the rooftop.

The city buzzed below us. Lights blinked in the distance like tiny promises.

“You’re gonna do big things,” he said.

“You too,” I replied.

We stood there for a long time, not talking.

And in that silence, I forgave myself for wanting more. I forgave him for not being mine. And I decided that I would no longer write letters I was too afraid to send.

I would live them instead.