After the letter was sealed, after the stamp was licked and stuck to the corner like a tiny prayer, I remembered the thing I left out— not the date, not the address, but the softest part.
PPS Amour— not a cry, not a claw-back, just a footnote left bleeding in the margin: I was here. I loved you. I still check the mailbox for someone who no longer writes back.
PPS: I lied when I said I didn't mind the silence. I collected every empty second you gave me and pressed them like dried flowers between the pages of a book I'll never finish.