ArtFlow

She had 47 unsent messages saved in her drafts. Not to different people — all to the same one. The most recent was from last Tuesday. The oldest was from fourteen months ago, three days after he left.
She wasn't sure when it became a habit. At first it was just one — something she needed to say that she couldn't say out loud, typed out at midnight and almost sent and then not sent. It helped. Getting the words out of her head and into something concrete, even if no one ever read them. So she kept doing it.
The messages ranged from furious to quiet to almost funny. Some were long, detailed accounts of things that had happened since — a promotion, a trip, a dinner party where someone said something that reminded her of him and she had to go stand in the bathroom for a minute. Some were just a sentence. One was just his name.
She reread them sometimes, late at night when she couldn't sleep. They were like a diary she'd written to an audience of one who would never read it. Honest in a way she couldn't be in real life, where she had to be fine because everyone expected her to be fine by now.
She wasn't going to send them. She knew that. But she also couldn't delete them. So they stayed in the drafts — 47 conversations that never happened, evidence of everything she hadn't figured out how to let go of yet.