Letters I Never Sent | To The People of War

Dear you,

Dear all of you,

Dear faces I don’t know but can’t stop seeing when I close my eyes…

I’ve been meaning to write this for weeks. But every time I try, the words feel so small compared to the ache.

The world is bleeding, and I’m here—on soft sheets, scented candles flickering, notifications buzzing with sales and skincare routines.

There’s glitter on my vanity, gold on my fingers, and guilt stitched into my silence.

I scroll. I repost. I pray.

Then I open a new tab and search for spring shoes.

It’s a rhythm I hate myself for: awareness, ache, distraction, despair, repeat.

Survivor’s guilt? Maybe.

But even that phrase feels indulgent when what I’ve survived is nothing like what you’re enduring.

I distract myself during the day.

Work. Outfits. Travels. Songs. Deadlines.

I let the noise of my life drown out the screams I can’t hear but somehow still feel.

But then night comes.

And my brain quiets.

And the haunting begins.

Faces I’ve never seen.

Children I’ll never know.

Mothers clutching sons.

Homes turned to rubble.

Weddings turned to funerals.

I cry sometimes, without knowing who the tears are for.

And I ask God if my aching heart means anything, or if it’s just… performance.

Because I still live. I still laugh. I still plan for the future.

And you, some of you won’t even get a future.

I wish I could write directly to every one of you.

I wish I could do more than wish.

I wish I could offer more than words.

But maybe these words are something.

Maybe they can carry love, even from here.

Maybe they can sit beside you, like a prayer in the dark.

And maybe one day, when this world is gentler, when justice rings louder than jets and bombs and bullets — we’ll meet in the next life.

And you’ll say:

“You didn’t know me,

but you remembered me anyway.”

And I’ll say:

“I never forgot.”

Love,

Afia