The first version sounded too formal, like I was writing a complaint to a customer service department. The second? Too emotional. It read like something I’d write after drinking half a bottle of wine and regretting it in the morning. The third one ended with“I owe you my life,”and that made me cry so hard I crumpled it into a ball and had to throw it away.
But the fourth one, this one is honest. It doesn’t have the right words. I’m not even sure there are the right words. But it’s the best I can do, the closest thing to the truth without spilling everything I’m not ready to face yet.
My handwriting looks smaller than usual. Neater, more careful. I write like I’m afraid to take up too much space on the page. Maybe because I feel like every stroke matters more than it should. Like this isn’t just a letter, it’s a moment I can’t take back once I send it.
The envelope is plain. Blank. No return address. I’m not ready for him to know where I live. Not because I’m scared of him, I’m not. Not after what he did. But because letting someone know where you sleep, where you breathe, where you hide from the world, that’s intimate in a way most people don’t understand. Besides, this isn’t about giving him my life story. It’s about telling him he changed it.
I sit at my kitchen table for a long time, staring at the folded paper. The tin star ornament hangs from the curtain rod, catching the morning light and spinning slowly. I hung it there this morning, after pacing around the apartment long enough to wear a path in the rug.
The place is quiet.Too quiet.My plants sit on the windowsill, drooping slightly because I forgot to water them last night. My coat is still tossed over the couch where I dropped it. My scarf, stretched and frayed, is draped across the arm like evidence.
I pick up the letter. My fingers shake. Then I read it again.
Dear Jaxon,
I don’t know if you remember me. I’m the girl from the alley. You stopped him. You saved me. I ran. I’ve thought about that night every day since. I should have stayed. I should have said something. I should have helped. Instead, you’re the one behind bars. And I can’t stop thinking about how wrong that is.
I spoke to the police. I gave them my statement, told them exactly what I saw. They said it might help. I don’t know if that’s true. But I wanted you to know, at the very least, I said something. I told them you weren’t the villain. That you were the reason I made it home.
I didn’t get your name that night, but I saw your face. I saw how you looked at him. And how you didn’t look at me. Not like he did.
There was no power trip in you. No thrill. Just fury. The kind of fury that comes from protecting something you don’t even know.
So… thank you. That doesn’t feel like enough. But it’s what I have. I’m not writing for any reason other than this: you matter. What you did mattered. And if you write back… I’ll read every word.
– M.
I trace the final letter, just the single“M,”with my fingertip. I don’t sign my full name. I don’t need to. If he wants to call me anything, he can call meM.If he wants to ignore this, he can. If he wants to burn it, he can do that too. But he deserves the truth. Even the smallest piece of it.
I fold the paper carefully, slide it into the envelope, and seal it with the heel of my hand. The sound of the glue sticking makes my chest tighten for reasons I don’t want to unpack yet. The walk to the mailbox is short. Just three blocks from my apartment,past the bakery that smells like heaven on weekends, past Mrs. Dunn’s front porch where she’s already hung her fake garland, past the line of identical apartment doors that always remind me of Advent calendar windows.
The snow has turned slushy. It crunches differently under my boots now, softer, wetter, less certain. My breath puffs in front of me as I walk, dissipating into the cold morning air. When I reach the little blue mailbox on the corner, I stop. My fingers curl tighter around the envelope. This shouldn’t feel like a big moment. People send letters all the time. Bills, postcards, birthday cards, thoughts they’re too scared to say out loud.
So why do I feel like I’m stepping off a cliff?
Because this isn’t just a thank you. This is a confession.
A bridge.
A beginning.
My hand trembles as I push the envelope into the slot. The metal is cold, biting through my glove. I hesitate, heart hammering, then release. It slides out of my fingers and disappears into the darkness. For a second, I can’t breathe. Then I pull my hand back, exhale shakily, and press my palm to the front of the mailbox like I’m giving it one last plea.
Please get this right.
Please get it to him.
I stand there for a moment, letting the cold soak through the wool of my gloves, grounding myself. He doesn’t owe me anything. He might not write back. He might not even want to hear from me. But I need him to.
Not because I’m fragile.
Not because I need saving all over again.
But because no one else was there. No one else saw the truth of that night. And for reasons I can’t fully explain yet, reasonsthat sit deep in my chest and won’t move. I want him to know I didn’t forget him. I want him to know he wasn’t alone.
And for the first time since that night, as I turn away from the mailbox and head back toward home, I feel something new.
Not fear.
