For simplicity's sake, I'm writing this as myself. Many of the facts are true, but the main story is not, however much I wish it to be.
I’ve always loved the concept of letters. The idea of writing something and sending it to a loved one, so they can see the words you’ve written, the paper you’ve held, the ink you’ve spilt. It just seems so flawlessly imperfect, yet so beautifully romantic.
Somebody very dear to me once said, “If you’re unsure whether to say something; say it. If you cannot say it; write it. If you cannot give it to them; just leave it somewhere. As long as it is away from your bedroom, they've read it.”
I have always loved writing, from the moment I could hold a pen. Writing is my outlet; it comforts me when I’m sad and laughs with me when I’m happy. It’s the perfect best friend. But there have been many times where I have written something and never given it to the intended. There are times when the letter isn’t sent, as it were.
This is when I grab that advice with both hands and take it. I’ll leave the letter, poem or rant on a bench, or in a tree, or under a stone - not in the hopes that someone will find it, but in the hopes that it’ll give me peace of mind.
And it does. So I haven’t stopped.