Jaanuu
Favoured Frenzy
There were letters, neatly folded, yellowing slightly at the edges, their contents sealed behind the weight of words that had never found their way to him. She hadn’t touched them in months, but she knew exactly where each one sat, stacked like fragile promises in the bottom drawer of her desk.
Alongside them were a few shirts, still carrying the faintest trace of his scent, though time had begun to steal it thread by thread.
She hadn’t worn them since the afternoon he had leaned into her collarbone, breathed her in like scripture, and whispered that she smelled like home. She had believed, foolishly perhaps, that such warmth could last. That to smell like home was enough to become one.
But now, the fabric only made her ache. Not for him, not anymore, but for the girl who had once been so certain she was enough.
Mira sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, idly flipping through an old photo album they’d pulled from beneath the bed. Laughter flickered at the corners of old memories, but neither of them could summon it tonight. The pictures felt like old films, familiar but too far to touch.
After a quiet pause, Mira’s voice rose gently through the room.
“Did he ever give you a closure?”
Her gaze had wandered to the window, where the late afternoon light filtered through the curtain in soft, golden threads. She didn’t answer immediately. Her breath came slow, shaped by the pause that comes not from sudden heartbreak, but from the long erosion of trying to hold on.
“No,” she said finally. Her voice was calm, almost distant. “He didn’t even give me silence. Just… traces. A drawer full of things that still smell like beginnings.”
Mira frowned slightly, her thumb resting on a photo where they were laughing under monsoon skies.
“Then why don’t you burn them?”
She gave a small, tired smile, "Because even ashes have a scent,” she said. Her fingers brushed the edge of the top envelope, but she didn’t lift it. “Even when something ends, it breathes. It just breathes..differently.”
The room stilled, just quiet, like the moment between rain and sun. And in that quiet, she sat beside the drawer. Then something shifted. She picked up the topmost envelope. It had no name. None of them did.
Back then, love had been so sure of itself, it needed no address.
She unfolded the paper slowly, almost reverently, as though it might crumble from the ache it carried. Her eyes skimmed the first lines, and her breath caught the way it does when you smell something that reminds you of being seventeen and inv incible.
“I saw a boy feeding pigeons today, and it reminded me of you,
how you always looked away when you cared too much.
Like you were afraid the world might see tenderness written on your face.”
She closed her eyes. Felt something loosen in her chest.
That was the thing about unsent love letters, they didn’t fade like regrets. They stay alive in their own stillness, like photographs of people who never returned.
She read on, slowly, like a prayer only the body remembers.
“I don’t know if you love me anymore.
But I love you in a way that doesn’t need proof.
I love you the way perfume clings to the collar of a shirt,
long after it’s been worn, folded, and forgotten.”
A single tear escaped, soft and unresisted. It didn’t feel like devastation, felt like known.
The letter wasn’t a plea.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a memory with its arms still open.
Mira reached over, resting her hand lightly on her friend’s knee.
“Are you okay?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer wouldn’t be simple.
She nodded slowly, the paper still resting in her lap.
“I think…” she began, voice steadier than it had been in weeks,
“I’m beginning to be.
It still hurts.
But it no longer asks to be understood.”
She folded the letter back, smoother this time and placed it beside her. Not back in the drawer. Not yet. It would sit with her a little longer, as she learned to sit with herself.
Then, without a word, she stood up and walked to the window.
Unlatched it.
Opened it wide.
The wind moved into the room like breath returning to a body.
Not his breath.
Not memory.
Her own.
Mira smiled gently. “Are you finally letting him out?”
She shook her head, softly.
“No,” she whispered, eyes still on the horizon.
“I’m letting myself out.”
~Jaanu
Alongside them were a few shirts, still carrying the faintest trace of his scent, though time had begun to steal it thread by thread.
She hadn’t worn them since the afternoon he had leaned into her collarbone, breathed her in like scripture, and whispered that she smelled like home. She had believed, foolishly perhaps, that such warmth could last. That to smell like home was enough to become one.
But now, the fabric only made her ache. Not for him, not anymore, but for the girl who had once been so certain she was enough.
Mira sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, idly flipping through an old photo album they’d pulled from beneath the bed. Laughter flickered at the corners of old memories, but neither of them could summon it tonight. The pictures felt like old films, familiar but too far to touch.
After a quiet pause, Mira’s voice rose gently through the room.
“Did he ever give you a closure?”
Her gaze had wandered to the window, where the late afternoon light filtered through the curtain in soft, golden threads. She didn’t answer immediately. Her breath came slow, shaped by the pause that comes not from sudden heartbreak, but from the long erosion of trying to hold on.
“No,” she said finally. Her voice was calm, almost distant. “He didn’t even give me silence. Just… traces. A drawer full of things that still smell like beginnings.”
Mira frowned slightly, her thumb resting on a photo where they were laughing under monsoon skies.
“Then why don’t you burn them?”
She gave a small, tired smile, "Because even ashes have a scent,” she said. Her fingers brushed the edge of the top envelope, but she didn’t lift it. “Even when something ends, it breathes. It just breathes..differently.”
The room stilled, just quiet, like the moment between rain and sun. And in that quiet, she sat beside the drawer. Then something shifted. She picked up the topmost envelope. It had no name. None of them did.
Back then, love had been so sure of itself, it needed no address.
She unfolded the paper slowly, almost reverently, as though it might crumble from the ache it carried. Her eyes skimmed the first lines, and her breath caught the way it does when you smell something that reminds you of being seventeen and inv incible.
“I saw a boy feeding pigeons today, and it reminded me of you,
how you always looked away when you cared too much.
Like you were afraid the world might see tenderness written on your face.”
She closed her eyes. Felt something loosen in her chest.
That was the thing about unsent love letters, they didn’t fade like regrets. They stay alive in their own stillness, like photographs of people who never returned.
She read on, slowly, like a prayer only the body remembers.
“I don’t know if you love me anymore.
But I love you in a way that doesn’t need proof.
I love you the way perfume clings to the collar of a shirt,
long after it’s been worn, folded, and forgotten.”
A single tear escaped, soft and unresisted. It didn’t feel like devastation, felt like known.
The letter wasn’t a plea.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a memory with its arms still open.
Mira reached over, resting her hand lightly on her friend’s knee.
“Are you okay?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer wouldn’t be simple.
She nodded slowly, the paper still resting in her lap.
“I think…” she began, voice steadier than it had been in weeks,
“I’m beginning to be.
It still hurts.
But it no longer asks to be understood.”
She folded the letter back, smoother this time and placed it beside her. Not back in the drawer. Not yet. It would sit with her a little longer, as she learned to sit with herself.
Then, without a word, she stood up and walked to the window.
Unlatched it.
Opened it wide.
The wind moved into the room like breath returning to a body.
Not his breath.
Not memory.
Her own.
Mira smiled gently. “Are you finally letting him out?”
She shook her head, softly.
“No,” she whispered, eyes still on the horizon.
“I’m letting myself out.”
~Jaanu
