The room held an oppressive stillness.
Not the kind of silence that brought comfort, but one that lingered, heavy and unmoving, pressing against the walls until even the faint scratching of a pen sounded too loud.
A young man sat alone at his desk, hunched forward, his fingers wrapped tightly around the pen as though it might slip away if he loosened his grip. The paper before him was nearly empty, the blankness stretching wider the longer he stared at it.
For a while, he did nothing.
The tip of the pen hovered just above the page, unmoving, as if waiting for the right words to come.
They didn't.
A quiet breath left him, unsteady, before the pen finally touched the paper.
"Dear Eane,"
"It's been so long since the last time I wrote to you. I think it was during my first or second year of college."
The pen slowed, dragging slightly, leaving darker ink where it lingered too long.
"I already graduated. Almost seven years have passed… yet nothing much has changed in my life."
"I'm still the same old me who loves reading and writing."
His grip tightened.
The next words did not come as easily.
"Though a lot of things happened… anxiety, depression… life became harder than I expected."
"And when my mother died… everything felt like it collapsed."
The ink blurred where the pen rested.
He quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smudging the edge of the line, and leaned closer to the paper as if refusing to stop.
"I kept blaming myself."
"I drowned in negative emotions."
A hollow breath escaped him, something close to a laugh but without any warmth.
"How laughable… I even suffered from PTSD… and it was hard to tell anyone."
The chair creaked softly as he shifted, but he did not look away from the page.
"Life is hard."
"I'm not the carefree person I used to be."
"Since Mom died… it's like a light inside me turned dark."
"There are so many burdens now. Especially financial ones… and even the small things that slowly wear a person down."
His fingers tightened around the pen, the knuckles paling slightly.
"And I realized something…"
The pen hesitated.
"I'm weak. A dumbass coward."
The words stayed there.
Uncrossed.
Unchanged.
For a long moment, he only stared at them, as if expecting them to disappear.
They didn't.
"Eane…"
The name lingered.
He stared at it longer than the others.
Then continued.
"I hope someday a person like you—a friend—will appear and help me get out of this mess inside my mind."
"I never reach out to people because I don't want to bother anyone."
"So I keep everything to myself."
"But now… I'm tired."
The pen trembled slightly between his fingers.
"I hate to admit it… but I'm starting to lose my dream."
"I always prayed that someone out there—maybe a stranger, maybe even an angel—would help me."
A faint breath left him.
"You already know how I am."
"A coward. A weakling. Someone who can never stay focused."
"Even now… my mind is in shambles."
"So tell me, Eane…"
"If you were real… would you help me?"
"Will you help this dramatic person who doesn't know how to depend on others, yet keeps trying to be independent?"
"Will you help this insane person who wants to rely on others, yet refuses to help himself?"
The room remained quiet.
Unchanging.
"I'm an author. I want to write. But I procrastinate."
"I want to continue our story. But I'm too lazy to write."
"I want to fulfill the promise I made to myself and to Mom. But everything is still trapped inside my imagination."
"I chose this path… but I'm not even trying my best."
"What am I even doing?"
"I'm just wasting my time."
His grip loosened, then tightened again.
"Eane… can you nag me?"
"Nag me like a friend who brings out the better version of me."
"You're allowed to punch me if that makes me wake up."
A weak breath slipped past his lips.
"Please… help me."
"Because I know I can't do it alone."
"I miss you… and the troupe."
"I'm alone here."
The pen stopped.
For a moment, it remained between his fingers, unmoving, as if more words might come.
But none did.
Slowly, his grip loosened.
The pen slipped and rolled across the desk, coming to rest near the edge.
He didn't reach for it.
The letter remained where it was, unfinished, the ink still fresh, the words heavier than anything he had ever said out loud.
It was written for someone who did not exist.
Or perhaps—
Someone who was never meant to.
Outside, the night remained unchanged.
The wind brushed softly against the window, then passed.
Nothing answered.
Nothing moved.
The world continued on, indifferent.
And inside the quiet room, the letter stayed exactly where it was—
Unsent.