Not every feeling has a voice.
Some live quietly—on pages never mailed, in words never spoken.
That's what I started doing after my second race.
Writing letters to Shabd.
Never gave them. Never planned to.
But it helped. Like bleeding out the ache without needing a bandage.
I wrote after every win, every breakdown, every time my heart skipped when I saw someone tall in a crowd. Always thinking—what if it was him?
---
Letter 1:
"You inspired me without ever meaning to.
You focused so hard on becoming a neurosurgeon that it made me want to become something impossible too.
So thank you—for never noticing me.
Because your silence made me faster."
---
Letter 5:
"I beat my time by 1.6 seconds today. That's huge.
Everyone clapped. But I looked around and still didn't see you.
I wonder what it would've felt like to hear you say, 'I'm proud of you.'
Just once."
---
Letter 9:
"Someone else said they liked me today.
I said no.
Not because I don't want love, but because I'm still full of one that never happened."
---
My drawer soon filled with folded memories I could never share.
But there was one letter that hurt more than the rest—the one I never finished.
The one that began with:
"Shabd… I love you. And I think I always will."
I stared at that sentence for days.
I never wrote another word under it.
Maybe because I knew… the ending was never mine to write.
And in my scrapbook that night, I didn't draw anything.
Just pressed the half-finished letter between two pages.
Like a flower that never bloomed—but still refused to die.
---