My dearest Imy,
There are moments in life where words feel both necessary and impossible. This is one of them. For weeks, perhaps months, I’ve carried this feeling inside me, circling it, studying it, trying to decide whether it is better left buried or brought into the light. But the weight of it has grown unbearable, and now here I am, writing to you, though I fear I’ll regret it the moment this reaches your hands.
I don’t know how it happened, how you came to occupy this space in my heart. Before you, I was adrift, wandering through my days without purpose, as if my existence was a story with no plot. I was resigned to it, a life of emptiness, punctuated only by the act of writing my sadness onto paper. But then you appeared, and suddenly, the air changed. My life was no longer a void. It was as if a faint light had begun flickering at the edge of my vision, and no matter how much I tried to ignore it, it drew me in.
I know this confession might ruin everything. I know the risk I’m taking. And yet, I also know that silence would ruin me even more. If I didn’t tell you how I feel, these words would haunt me forever, becoming yet another weight to carry. So I will say it plainly: I like you, Imy. I like you in a way that I never thought possible for someone like me.
There is a distance between us, not just in miles but in the lives we lead. We come from different worlds, speak different languages, and yet somehow, none of that matters. When I talk to you, those differences dissolve. Even a brief conversation, a simple exchange of words, feels like a balm for everything that is broken in me. You have a way of making the unbearable seem bearable, of turning my darkest days into something I can endure.
But lately, I’ve felt you pulling away, and it’s left me in limbo. Did I imagine everything? Did I misread the moments we shared? There was a time when I thought, hoped you might feel something for me, even briefly. But now, I am not so sure. Perhaps it’s my own inadequacy; I’ve never thought of myself as someone deserving of love. You, on the other hand, deserve so much more than I could ever give.
You are extraordinary, Imy. You are strong and honest, unafraid to speak the truth, even when it hurts. You are kind in ways that matter and thoughtful in ways that most people overlook. You are both wise and wonderfully childlike, and it’s that duality that fascinates me. Yes, you are beautiful, but it is your spirit your essence that draws me to you.
I’ve imagined a future with you, though I know it is foolish. In my mind, I see us sharing our days, our laughter, our stories. I see us building something simple and imperfect, yet somehow complete. I even imagine the life we might create together, a family, perhaps, though it feels absurd to admit it. These are dreams I’ve clung to, even knowing they may never become real.
And yet, here I am, confessing all of this to you, knowing full well the outcome may be rejection. I won’t lie to you it will hurt. It will wound me deeply, as such things always do. But I will survive. I have survived worse, haven’t I? I’ve lived through the ache of being forgotten, of being invisible. If you do not feel the same, I will respect your decision. I will move forward, though I know I will carry the memory of you with me always.
But if, by some chance, you feel even a fraction of what I feel, I want you to know this: I will do everything I can to make you happy. I will cross the distance between us, in every sense of the word. I will not let the miles or the differences or the challenges stand in our way.
No matter what you decide, Imy, I want to thank you. You came into my life when I needed it most, and you gave me hope when I thought I was beyond saving. You may never fully understand what you’ve done for me, but I hope you know this: you are, and always will be, one of the most beautiful things to have ever entered my life.
Yours,
Little Kafka
Letter to Imy