Draft, Never Sent
From: Ayan
Subject: I wish I hadn’t left.
Last Updated: Sun 15/2/26 4:03 PM GMT
Dear Nabila,
I must admit that reading through your last email, with its professional tone, its politeness, and its calm, made me laugh. I read it more than once—enough times to have bits of it encoded in my memory. You made sure not to let any emotion bleed into your words, or perhaps there are no emotions left for us to deal with. This entire ordeal is one without passion: an ordeal of letting go.
There was a time when I admired your composure, your ability to mask your emotions. Today, I realized how you hide behind its layers.
There are things about our last year together that I never got around to telling you; putting them out there felt like an excuse. When you wanted to turn the blog into something more real, something structured, I didn’t fight it because I was against the idea. I just wasn’t ready. Every time something got real, whether it was the blog or our relationship, I took flight.
Planning ahead was your thing. You always knew what you wanted—internships lined up, your career planned. I was never sure of anything. Even of you.
The blog was a place where I didn’t need to be competent or disciplined. It was a place for us to share, a space where we said everything we couldn’t say face-to-face. So, when you asked for discipline and structure, I found myself terrified. I was scared that you would finally see me for what I really was: a confused, clumsy, absolute mess of a kid. I was afraid that when you saw how imperfect I was, you would leave me alone. I wasn’t capable of letting my flaws be visible, and I had too much ego to let my fragilities be communicated through words. So, my feeling of inadequacy led me down the path it always took me: withdrawal. I didn’t leave; I escaped.
I told myself it was all temporary, that I would return when I was ready. I told myself that, when the time came, I’d tell you every tiny detail. I’d tell you about all my demons. But that time never came.
Silence is like concrete: it feels fluid, like you could remove it without much effort. But just like concrete flowing from one of those trucks, it creeps in. It solidifies and becomes a wall. It becomes a wall that is impossible to break. So, when silence crept between us, I didn’t know how to get past its layers. I ventured out into the woods, away from you. But when evening came and it was time to return home to you, I couldn’t find the path.
The blog was more than a public diary or a reflection of ourselves. It was an enigma machine. The words we wrote were secret messages in plain sight, messages only we understood. It was how we communicated; it was how we let ourselves be seen by each other. Without the blog, without the camouflage of aesthetics and performance, there was no way for me to get my honesty through to you. Hell, even now, nothing can get me to press send on these draft emails—not even alcohol.
I didn’t leave because I didn’t care. I left because I cared so much it terrified me. I love you. To this day, I love you just as much. I wish there was a way for me to find my way back to you, but there isn’t. The blog will disappear soon, too. I just hope that in every corner of the universe, happiness finds you.
Love, Always,
Ayan
Email, Sent
From: Ayan
Subject: Re: Archive Access
Sent: Sun 15/2/26 8:24 PM GMT
Hello Nabila,
Thank you for reaching out, and for continuing to maintain the archive all these years. I did not expect to see those folders again in such careful order. It felt strange, in a quiet way, to open them and find everything intact.
I have reviewed the materials and confirmed that everything is accessible on my end. The organization is precise—exactly as I remember you structuring things, though perhaps even more methodical now. It is clear you have put consistent effort into preserving both the content and the context, and I appreciate the patience that effort must have required.
Regarding ownership, you may proceed with whichever option feels most practical to you. I do not have a preference, and I trust your judgment regarding what would serve the archive best going forward. What matters to me is that it remains usable and that the work does not disappear.
Looking through the documents reminded me of how much attention we once gave to small details that most people would never notice.
I hope work has been going well for you, and that the process of maintaining the archive has not become too burdensome alongside everything else you manage.
Best regards,
Ayan
