(h)E(r)
I could write this letter in your mother language, tracing every syllable back to its source.
But many words demanded translation, transcribing echoes I’m still learning to decode.
In this exercise of gentle interpretation, I discovered that understanding drifts between the lines, carried by gestures too subtle to speak aloud.
We share an origin story, though I’ve lived chapters neither of us fully scripted.
Over time, I learned to scribe my own margins, to annotate the spaces you left unfilled.
And in those silent passages, I found the freedom to grow beyond the contexts you once carried, and perhaps still carry, like inheritance.
Our voices may never harmonize in perfect unison, yet each pause between us holds its own melody.
I respect the distance you’ve drawn; it taught me how to cultivate the landscape of my own becoming.
Love, I’ve realized, is sometimes the courage to step quietly away, trusting that both author and reader can flourish separately.
I have translated my past into a map, each compass point quietly aligned with the letter E, not as an initial, but as an echo.
May you find in your own script new idioms of joy, and may your next sentence be one only you can write.
So this,
this isn’t a letter for answers.
It’s just a whisper
in a language we both no longer speak.
But still,
I hope you read between the lines.
- FD (2025)
