Letters to the Void

Content Warnings: Grief

Olivia didn’t know what made her do it. 

Perhaps it was the way the snow seemed to hush the world, falling silently in muffled whispers and moulding the scenery outside her window in a fragile stillness. Maybe it was the bone-deep emptiness crushing her chest. Whatever it was, she couldn’t ignore the irrational, almost desperate need to try again.

At her desk, her hand trembled, pen poised above a thick stack of cream-coloured paper. She shook, not from the cold, but from the tentative hesitation paralysing her fingers, its weight impossible to relieve. 

She had tried to write this letter for days, perhaps weeks, but every attempt ended the same: her hand faltered, and the page was left disappointingly blank. Today, though, something inside her stirred restlessly.

The pen touched the paper, and her handwriting unfurled slowly, haltingly.

[Dear Dad,

Do you know how hard it is to write to you like this? It feels like speaking into a void, like throwing words into the wind and hoping they reach you somehow. It seems foolish for me to wish that I could hear your voice one last time. To hear you call me ‘Liv’ in the beautiful, soft way only you would. To hear you say my name like it was something worth holding gently.]

She stopped, her breath catching in her throat. It scared her how quickly those small details were slipping away. The exact note in his laughter, the warmth of his hand as it ruffled her hair, the hue of his eyes—she tried to hold onto them, but the harder she grasped, the harder it became to remember.

Olivia pressed her pen harder into the page.

[I wonder if I ever told you how much you meant to me. I wonder if, for every ‘I love you’ I told you twice back. I thought there would always be more time. More time to memorize the taste of your cooking, or your laugh, or the shape of your handwriting.

‘I don’t want you to leave me.’ I wonder, if I’d told you then, would it have made a difference? If I had said, ‘I’m sorry’ would you have stayed with me longer?]

A tear slipped onto the paper, smudging the ink. She wiped at it with her sleeve, leaving a faint blur behind. “Life is so messy, Liv,” he’d said once, drawing a warm hand over her back. “But that’s what makes tears so beautiful. They’re proof that we survive the worst of it.”

Her lips twitched, almost a smile, but the ache beneath it was too sharp. She set her pen down and leaned back in her chair. These words seemed so fragile, the thin, scrawling script looking emaciated and mournful. But they were hers. They were everything left unsaid.

The snow outside thickened, swirling in slow, deliberate patterns. He’d always called it nature’s quiet apology for the harshness of winter. She’d tease him for his sentimental streak, but now she’d give anything to hear him wax poetic about something so ordinary.

Setting the book aside, she picked up the pen again. The ink flowed more easily this time.

[There’s so much I didn’t get to ask you. ‘Were you happy?’ ‘Did you regret loving me?’ These thoughts follow me relentlessly. Unforgivingly. I remember you telling me I should follow my heart… I never thought to ask if you followed yours. Was this life enough for you?

I believed you when you told me you were content. I wonder, did you believe it too?]

Her hand stilled. The room felt too quiet now, the kind of silence that pressed against her skin and made her chest throb painfully. 

Back at the desk, the letter waited, patient and unassuming. She picked up the pen once more, her movements slower now, more deliberate.

[I’m afraid of forgetting. Not just your face, but the gentle intricacies I loved about you. Your gentle touch, the wrinkles that lined your eyes, the jokes that made me smile. How you made me feel safe, even when the world felt too big and cruel.

You told me not to cry. I’m sorry. But without you, it feels like such a precious part of this world has been taken from me, and there’s too much missing from my life to be okay again.]

The ink blotted slightly as she pressed too hard. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. The tears were there again, warm against her cheeks, but she sniffled and continued, ignoring her steadily blurring vision.

[I know you can’t hear me but, childishly, I hope you can. I hope you know I’m trying. I’m trying to hold onto you, even as the days pull my memory further away. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this. Because if I can’t say it to you, at least I can pretend you know: 

I miss you. 

Always yours, 

Liv.]

Her hand fell still, the letter complete. She didn’t read it over. The words weren’t perfect, but they were honest. And that felt like enough.

She folded the letter carefully, licking a wrinkled envelope and sealing it inside. For a moment, she just held it, carefully smoothing the creases. Then she placed it into the desk drawer, next to a pile of similar papers with scribbled out words. A part of her wanted to destroy it, to bring a flame to the parchment and forget the heaviness of it on her heart. Another part of her knew she’d open it again, someday, when the ache felt less sharp and the memories less distant. When she could breathe again. 

Outside, the snow began to slow, its soft rhythm lulling the world into an uneasy peace. Olivia sat back, her hands resting in her lap, and let the cold, still air settle around her. And though the house was quiet, she could almost hear his voice again, carried on the whispers and tears of falling snow.

Reda Shahid is a 17-year-old aspiring entrepreneur with a passion for innovation, leadership, and storytelling. With experience in business planning, marketing, and mentorship, she actively contributes to her community through volunteer work. As an aspiring writer, she crafts compelling narratives that explore deep emotional and psychological themes. She plans to pursue a BComm degree to further her entrepreneurial ambitions.