letters to strangers

Somewhere, in a city I’ve never touched, you wake up thinking of someone you’ve never met.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe not. But I still write to you, in the spaces between sleep and silence.

To the man who lingers too long in bookstores, tracing titles like secrets—I think we’d have shared a quiet corner, our knees brushing under a dim café table, discussing Baudelaire and the politics of longing without ever raising our voices.

To the traveler in a wrinkled linen shirt, always searching for something unnamed—You would’ve caught my eye across a train platform.We wouldn’t have spoken. But later, in a room with high ceilings and warm light. I’d replay that moment like a memory we never made.

To the stranger who writes letters but never sends them—I understand. Some things lose their magic when they arrive. Some people are meant to be imagined, not held.

Sometimes I think there’s a parallel life where we found each other at the exact right moment.Where timing wasn’t a thief, and place didn’t matter.Where we said yes before we learned to hesitate. But I don’t need to know you to write to you. This—whatever this is—isn’t about finding you. It’s about honoring that part of me that still believes in beautiful unknowns.

So this is my letter. Folded in moonlight, sealed in wax, and sent to you

If it finds you…don’t answer. Just think about you.