A Love Letter to the Drafts

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There’s something sacred about the notes that never see the light of day. One day, while clearing out my photos, notes, and even messages in hopes of making some space for storage, I stumbled upon the quiet chaos that I had forgotten I carried. All of it—the notes written at 3 AM, the messages still waiting to be sent, and the poems and prose I almost published but hesitated to do so—silently stored in the depths of my phone, waiting to be rediscovered. In hopes of trying to meet and know more about the version of me who once typed her heart out into these drafts, I read them all. 

Some of them were too soft, too fragile to survive outside the safety of my solitude. There were a lot of long essays for every heartache I tried to bury. My phone contained words I always wanted to say but never did, passing on chances I was presented with all because I was afraid. I’ve typed several paragraphs of messages for people who will never get to read them, vague one-liner entries that only make sense to me, and poems that remain unfinished. 

Others were too loud, too sharp, too angry, too bruised. And instead of lashing out at the world because of a pain I haven’t learned how to express kindly, I wrote them down. All of these, I wrote while too consumed in the heat of the moment. However, funnily enough, they were also forgotten by the morning. Tucked away by the rising sun, like a bruise that faded before anyone noticed. It was a secret, a short moment of vulnerability I only needed to tell once to my phone, not the world.

There’s a strange kind of honesty in the things that remain unsent, unposted, unshared.  Maybe because when we write without an audience in mind, we gain more courage in expressing ourselves. We find it easier to tell the truth more honestly and bravely. 

And that’s what makes the drafts so beautiful. Maybe this is a love letter to the drafts. To the words that never made it to the outside world but somehow held my world together. A quiet tribute to every fleeting thought, every raw emotion translated into words, and every private entry that helped me sail a storm I didn’t tell anyone about.

So here’s to the drafts—the witness to all our hidden chaos, our softness, our anger, and even our healing. They may never make it to the timelines and stories, but they are there when we need a space not to perform and impress, but simply to feel and be real. And maybe, that’s all we ever really need—to be seen by ourselves, even when no one else is watching.