Letters people shared.

I came in to buy a pregnancy test on a Saturday in April. I was crying before I got to the counter. You put the test in a paper bag without scanning the bag. You said "on the house, sugar" and you waved me away. It was a $19 test. I have thought about you every day for two years.

You sent me a text every Sunday for two years. I did not answer. You kept sending them. The 73rd one is the one that worked. Thank you for the 72.

It is Wednesday. Nothing special happened. I love you. I wanted you to know.

I do not know you yet. I am forty-one. I am writing to ask you to be kind to me. I made some of these decisions for you. I am hoping you do not hate me for them. I went back to school. I did not have the second child. I think you understand. I hope you do.

I keep wanting to call you. The phone is heavy. I love you. That doesn't change.

Toronto in February is not your January. I am writing to apologize for leaving and to admit that I would do it again. My cousin Hala is still there. She sends voice notes. She laughs in them. I do not know how. I am keeping her voice notes in a folder. If something happens I want the laughter saved.

We were eighteen. We were right. The world told us we were too young. We listened. I do not regret my life. I only regret the listening.

I watched you fold the towels this morning the same way you always do — the small one inside the big one. I don't know why this nearly made me cry. I just wanted to write it down before I forgot.

It is going to be okay. I do not know that. I am saying it anyway. When you get out, the room will be ready. The job at your tío's shop is ready. I made enchiladas verdes on Sunday and saved you the corner piece. It will be in the freezer. Come home.

We are not best friends. We are not in each other's weddings. We sit across the hall from each other and we make each other coffee and we ask after each other's mothers. That is its own kind of love. I am writing this so I do not forget that quiet love also counts.

He came home and said "Mr. Alvarez told me I'm smart in a way that takes time." He repeats this to himself when math is hard. I will remember your name forever.

I keep your number in my phone. I texted it last week. I know nobody got the text. I sent it anyway. I told you my son graduated. I told you the lawn is brown. I told you I miss you the way you miss a brother. The phone did not buzz back. I knew it would not. I sent …

You took eight years to do it. I am not going to call that wasted. Eight years was how long it took to be sure. People who leave on a Wednesday after a fight are people who go back on Friday. You went slow. You went sure. I am proud of the slow.

Houston nurse, twelve-hour shifts, fifteen years. I am sorry. I knew you were complaining. I worked through it because the rent needed paying. I am in physical therapy now. I am trying to learn to sit. Sitting is a skill I never learned. I am forty-eight and learning to sit. Thank you for holding out. I see you now.

Surf City, North Carolina, July 2021. You were forty pounds heavier than I was and you walked away before I could thank you. I have a daughter now. I named her Beverly because that is the only word you said to me while you were dragging me in. You said "easy, easy, easy." Beverly is two. She does not know …

Salvadoran widow speaking. You were the only person at the funeral who did not try to tell me how to feel. You brought pupusas and sat on the porch with me. We did not speak for two hours. I still think about that as the kindest thing anybody did. I do not know where you live now. I hope you …

I am a grown woman writing a love letter to a dog. So be it. You met me at the door every single day. Nobody else has ever done that.

You are not the same. Neither am I. My husband is in the kitchen making coffee like nothing happened. Something happened. We are not going to talk about it for a while. I am going to walk past the mirror without flinching today. That is the goal. That is the whole goal. Tomorrow has a different goal. One day at …

The new owners painted the porch blue. I drove past last summer and almost stopped. I wanted to tell them about the chip in the kitchen tile where my brother dropped the iron skillet. They wouldn't have cared. I would have told them anyway.

Wednesday morning, Newark to Penn. You handed me a napkin and went back to your newspaper. You did not ask what was wrong. You did not try to fix it. You were the kindest stranger I have ever met.