I fed ChatGPT a lot of my thoughts and feelings and then asked it to helped me put it together. This is the result:
The letter is placed into my hands, folded once, then again, edges worn soft by the fingers that held it too long before letting it go.
The person who gives it to me does not meet my eyes right away.
Their features are tight, carved deep with unsaid things — lips pressed in a line too firm to be natural, eyes heavy with the weight of decision.
There is no anger in their face, no weeping, either.
Just a kind of tired courage — the kind it takes to open a door you know you’ll never walk back through.
“Deliver it in person,” they say. Their voice is steady, but their hand trembles as they release the letter into mine.
“No reply. Just... make sure he gets it.”
I nod. I am the letter carrier now. A bridge between breaking and broken.
When I find the father, he is smaller than I expect.
Not in body — no, his frame still holds some remnant of past strength —
but in the way he occupies space, as if the world itself has grown too heavy to bear.
I hand him the letter.
For a moment, he just stares at it, as if unsure whether to touch it.
His mouth twitches once, the corner pulling downward as if dragged by an invisible weight.
The breath he pulls in is shallow, a gasp he tries to hide.
When he finally takes it, his fingers close around it too tightly, crumpling the soft edges.
His knuckles go white. His eyes flicker —
not with anger, but with something raw and hollow.
Grief, maybe. Or regret so thick it chokes him.
He does not open it in front of me.
He does not speak.
But his posture collapses inward, a fortress falling without the need for war.
In that silent crumple of shoulders, I see everything.
I turn and walk away, as I was asked to do,
the letter heavy in his hands,
the air behind me split by a silence louder than any scream.
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