Email, Sent.
From: Nabila
Location: Dhaka
Subject: Blog Archive: Closure and Access
Sent: Sat 14/2/26 8:24 PM GMT+6
Hello Ayan,
I hope you are well.
I am writing regarding the shared blog archive we maintained during school and university. The account and domain are still under joint access, which requires periodic renewals. Given the inactivity over the past few years, it seems appropriate to either close the archive or transfer full ownership to a single administrator.
All posts, media, and comments have been preserved and organized according to our original structure. You may want to review them if you would like to keep personal copies before any action is taken.
Please let me know your preference:
- You assume full ownership of the archive.
- I proceed with permanent closure after confirming all backups.
If I do not receive a response, I plan to finalize the administrative steps within two weeks.
I trust London has been treating you well. The routines there are quite different from ours here, I imagine.
Thank you for looking into this.
Best,
Nabila
Draft, Never Sent
From: Nabila
Subject: You left me to finish it alone.
Last Updated: Sun 15/2/26 1:03 AM GMT+6
Dear Ayan,
There was something eerily funny about writing that formal email to you. The tone, the words—they are all reminiscent of the emails I send to colleagues and clients every day. Sending a message like that to someone who knows how I take my tea and how my hair looks in the sun isn’t something I imagined I would ever have to do. And that makes me sad.
I kept the blog alive for years, even after you stopped replying. I renewed the domain, I archived the comments, and I fixed the broken links. Maintenance, I told myself. But it wasn’t maintenance. Privately looking after the blog was really just a wait. I was waiting for you to come back.
I wasn’t expecting a grand apology or huge paragraphs’ worth of explanations. I was waiting for you to text me again. I was waiting for a “Hello,” an “I’m sorry.” I was waiting for you to ask me how I was doing. I was hoping you’d say something, just to break the silence. You never did.
Do you remember the time I wanted to turn the blog into something formal, something real? I said I didn’t just want to keep it as a diary—it wasn’t sustainable. We fought over it. I pushed you, and you said nothing. You never did. You let yourself be treated like a punching bag. By me, by everyone.
What I wish I had told you, but didn’t, was that I was struggling. I was struggling emotionally, and my pockets were bleeding out. I needed something constant. I needed structure. I needed something I could turn my life around with. You withdrew from that conversation. You refused to hear me out. And then you left to build a new life.
When you stopped returning my texts, stopped picking up my calls, and started leaving me on read, I figured you didn’t care as much as I did. I thought the blog didn’t mean to you what it meant to me. I thought I didn’t mean much to you after all.
The belief that I wasn’t important, that all our late nights and morning texts didn’t matter to you—it hurt. I was angry. I was angry for a long time. I was angry about the silence. I was angry that what was once ours was left for me to take care of, alone. I was so alone. But the thing about anger is that it never persists; it transforms. It transforms into something else. For me, it was exhaustion.
I was so insistent on not showing my vulnerabilities that I never told you what I was afraid of. And I never saw what you were afraid of. I was scared of instability; the thought of being left behind petrified you. The argument wasn’t where I lost you. I didn’t even lose you when you moved to London. The loss came when, after the blog, we forgot how to talk like normal people. We simply stopped. And so, we exchange greetings over email now.
This email will never find you. There is no point in saying all of this now. It’s just the self-realization that what hurt me the most wasn’t losing the blog. I was hurt because I lost you. I lost my best friend; I lost my love. Now, I hate you. I hate how you left. But I miss you like a little kid. Come back, Ayan. Please.
With love,
Nabila