A draft never deleted.
A memory too sacred to let go of.
A message they never had the nerve to send.
Everyone keeps something.
Mine is saved under Archive #5.
A letter written in orange ink, titled “Our Story”
Lives in a folder no one knows about—but I visit it more than I care to admit.
It wasn’t the first letter I wrote for someone.
But it’s the only one I wrote for him.
We met in an online German class—nothing glamorous, just usernames on screens, video tiles that flickered between “on” and “off.”
But somehow… it all started there.
No meet-cute, no eye contact across a hallway.
Just his voice. My stubbornness.
And something electric in between.
This, dear reader, is what I wrote but never sent.
OUR STORY.
August 22nd, 2022.
It’s you and me. We were fifteen.
Nothing extraordinary—just two high school kids,
trying to outshine each other at every turn.
You did it twice?
I’d do it three times.
Joined the class at 8?
Fine, I’d join at 7:59.
We were on fire.
You’d always score higher at hören, but I made sure to beat you at lesen.
It wasn’t until the teacher paired us up that we realised we had a decent team dynamic going on. We had no idea, then, that this class would mark the beginning of something we'd carry forever. Let's not tell them too many details, shall we? Let this remain our little secret.
Still, neither of us knew that when the end was near, I would have to change my entire class schedule. I remember thinking: This might be the last time I’ll ever see him. That day, we texted like nonstop 24/7, thinking that was the last chance. And so it was, the hours passed—our messages endless, as though we were trying to outrun goodbye. We’d end the day by saying to each other, “see you in Berlin”.
But time, in its strange mercy, lets us meet again. No special gestures.
Just two people finding their way back quietly, as friends.
But this time, it’s not just a coincidence.
Everyone said it.
“It’s fate.”
But us?
We still clung to “just friends.”
Right?
…Right?
Or so we claimed. But, pray tell, what friend renders others envious with their presence alone?
Then, time, the ever-truthful witness, revealed what I would not yet admit aloud:
You, sir, were not dreadful at all. Indeed, you were everything I didn’t know I needed. Steadfast. Understanding. A gentleman in word and deed. You changed me in every correct way.
Then came my birthday. October 15.
You had been distant in the days before.
Maybe you forgot.
Or worse—maybe you didn’t care.
I waited.
Your phone was off. Even your socials were silent.
I tried not to overthink it, but as the day passed, I started to panic.
That night, at exactly 11:59 PM—
your name lit up on my screen.
“Happy Birthday.”
We talked for hours.
About everything and nothing.
And then, you asked:
“Do you want to have dinner tomorrow?”
I said yes.
We sat across the table, wearing white.
Something looked different, though I still couldn’t wrap my head around what it was.
You got quiet. Nervous.
You said you had something important to say.
That you were glad we were close. That you were grateful for our friendship.
That I made you feel safe.
I smiled. I thanked you.
But I knew something was coming.
You looked me in the eyes and said:
“But I don’t want to be just your friend. I want more than that. I love you.”
I froze.
I didn’t know what to say.
I needed time.
And you, being you,
Patiently waited, didn't rush me,
said, “it’s okay. I’ll wait.”
That night, I ran home and called the girls.
Told them everything—every word, every look, every second.
They screamed. Gasped. Gave advice in voices two octaves higher than usual.
One said go for it—he’s a good guy.
The other told me to take my time.
Despite their opposite nature,
yet somehow, they both spoke in unison,
“Do what your heart tells you.”
And for once, I actually listened.
I didn’t know it then—not when we laughed, not when we argued, not even when we stayed up talking for hours.
But somewhere between love and time, my heart changed its mind. I cannot recall the moment I started seeing you differently, and when your voice became the rhythm by which I breathed.
But you noticed something, like you always did.
And when you said you wanted more, you dared me to explore the possibility of us.
One week of pretend.
Just you, me, and our best friends knew.
One week to confirm the truth that had always been clear to us:
We were no longer falling.
We had already fallen. Deeply.
We were head over heels.
Yet love, for us, was never casual. We dated with intention. With forever in mind.
And we knew we weren’t ready. Not yet. We weren’t mature enough for such a big commitment.
We left it. Unlabelled.
But it was not nothing.
We were not lovers.
And heaven knows, we were never friends.
For what friend remains awake with you beneath the stars, talking till midnight?
What friend utters I love you as though it were as natural as breathing?
Those unforgettable nights.
The late-night car drives, our netflix rituals (which always ended with both of us asleep), all the whispered futures, your touch & smile, roses & dandelions, and every other second that we got to spend together throughout the 3 years.
Sadly, the future had different plans for us.
No villain existed in this tale.
Only time and growth and the cruel poetry of becoming.
But if you ever find yourself searching for someone to blame,
Please let it be me.
For perhaps we are not who we once were—
and perhaps my Berlin no longer holds the same promise it once did.
But I swear this upon ink and silence:
You shall forever possess a corner of my heart that's untouched by time.
We were each other’s truth.
But now, for the second time, I must whisper:
See you in Berlin.
I never sent that letter.
I never needed to.
Because some stories are not written to be heard—only remembered.
But as I write this now,
I’m doing my best to forget that we ever existed.
You might call it denial.
But I call it self-preservation.
Because if I let myself fall into the what-ifs,
if I let my mind wander back into the memory of us,
I’ll never make it out whole.
So, I tuck the possibilities away.
Not because they don’t matter—
but because I do.
I keep Archive #5.
Tucked between who we were,
and who we never got to be.
And when the nights are too quiet,
when the memories ache a little louder,
I return to it.
Not to change a single word.
Not to erase anything.
But simply to feel it again.
Because once—just once—
you and I were everything.
And even if the world forgot,
I never will.
And if you ask me, did the way I saw it all ever change, even a little?
No.
Not even a bit.
