Sometimes the past stays quiet for years—until it suddenly refuses to.Letter writing kit
When a thin envelope slipped from a dusty attic shelf, it tore open a chapter of my life I was certain had closed forever.
Every December, when the sun dipped before five and the same old string lights flickered in the windows like they did when the kids were small, Daphne always drifted back into my thoughts.
It wasn’t intentional. She appeared the way the scent of pine does—soft, uninvited, lingering. Thirty-eight years later, she still lived in the corners of Christmas. My name is Merrick. I’m fifty-nine now. And in my twenties, I lost the woman I thought I’d grow old with.
Not because love faded. Not because of betrayal or a dramatic ending. Life simply grew louder and more complicated than we ever imagined when we were starry-eyed college kids making promises under bleachers.
Daphne had a quiet strength that drew people in. She could sit in a crowded room and somehow make you feel like you were the only person there.
We met sophomore year. She dropped her pen. I picked it up. That was it.Gift baskets
From that moment on, we were inseparable—the kind of couple people teased affectionately but secretly admired. We weren’t flashy. We just fit.
Then graduation came.
I got a call saying my father had taken a serious fall. His health was already fragile, and my mother couldn’t manage alone. I moved back home.
At the same time, Daphne had landed her dream job at a nonprofit—meaningful work, real purpose. I couldn’t ask her to give that up.
We told ourselves the distance would be temporary. Weekend visits. Long letters. We believed love would carry us through.
Then, without warning, she went silent.
No argument. No goodbye. Just absence.
One week her letters were full of emotion and ink. The next, my mailbox stayed empty. I kept writing. One letter was different—I told her I loved her, that I could wait, that nothing had changed.Shop for bestsellers
That was the last letter I ever sent.
I even called her parents and asked them to pass it along. Her father was polite but distant. He said he would make sure she received it.
I believed him.
Weeks turned into months. Still nothing. I told myself she’d moved on. Maybe she met someone else. Maybe she outgrew us. Eventually, I did what people do when there’s no closure.
I moved forward.
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