"A House of Letters: The Moment the Truth Unravelled"

 

I had travelled miles to see him—my long-distance boyfriend, the one I had built hopes and dreams around, despite the space between us. When he left for work that day, I found myself alone in his apartment. It was quiet, intimate, filled with pieces of his life that I had never fully stepped into before. Wanting to be helpful—maybe even prove I belonged in his space—I began tidying up.

That’s when I found them.

A bundle of letters. Handwritten, carefully tucked away, and not just from me. My heart lurched before my mind even caught up. There were letters from other girls, all long-distance, like me. I was just one name in a collection.

I froze. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears, my body tense, waiting for the moment where this would make sense—where I could rationalize it, explain it away. But I couldn’t. The truth sat there, ink on paper, staring back at me.

I opened one. The words spilled out, full of warmth, romance, longing—the kind I thought was reserved for me. Then I opened another. And another. They all told the same story. The same devotion. The same promises. The same lies.

Shock turned into anger. Had I ever been special? Had anything he said been real? The weight of the dishonesty crushed the air out of my lungs. He had carefully crafted this world, playing the role, he needed to play for each of us, knowing we’d never cross paths. He hadn’t chosen me—he had collected me.

I sat there, staring at the letters, my mind spinning with memories. Every "I miss you," every "I wish you were here," every "You're the only one." Had they been rehearsed? Copied? Sent out like a script, adjusted for each name?

I wanted to scream. I wanted to disappear. Most of all, I wanted answers—but I already had them.

When he got home that evening, I didn’t even need to ask. The way his face shifted when he saw the pile of letters on the table, the way his breath caught, told me everything.

I left.

Not with the neat closure I had hoped for—not with explanations or apologies that would ever make it okay. Just with the truth, laid bare, and the painful but necessary realization: I deserved better.