“The Love Letter I Never Sent”

I’ve handled thousands of letters in my lifetime—love confessions scribbled on postcards, divorce papers soaked in perfume, birthday wishes that arrived late but still brought tears. But the one letter that meant the most never left my satchel.

Her name was Ana.

She used to live in Apartment 3B of an old yellow building tucked into the quiet part of Valencia. Every Thursday morning for four years, she’d leave out a little something for me—sometimes a warm pastry, other times a single orange flower from her terrace garden, tied with twine. No note. No explanation. Just… kindness.

She was older than me, maybe by ten years. Widowed, I think. Wore those embroidered shawls like she was born in a different century. Her voice had this quiet music to it—like something you’d hear in the background of an old black-and-white movie. I never asked about her past. She never asked about mine.

Our connection grew slowly—like how tea cools in a clay cup. Small conversations by the gate, a shared laugh when the neighborhood cat climbed her clothesline, or a long silence that didn’t feel awkward.

Then came the storm.

I don’t mean rain. I mean my health. One winter, I collapsed in the middle of my route—heart attack, the doctors said. Mild but serious enough. I was forced into early retirement. It felt like someone stole the rhythm of my life.

The Thursday after I got out of the hospital, I went to her building—not in uniform, just with shaky legs and a letter in my pocket. The letter. A simple page folded thrice, telling her what I couldn’t say face to face:

“You’ve been the softest part of my week. If this world had more people like you, maybe I’d have believed in love a little earlier. But it’s not too late… unless I don’t tell you now.”

But when I rang her bell, the landlord answered. She’d moved out. Said something about needing to live closer to her sister in Zaragoza. No goodbye. No forwarding address.

I still carry the letter. It’s yellow now, curled at the edges. Sometimes, when I sit by the sea and watch old couples walk hand in hand, I read it aloud—not to anyone else, just to the wind.

You see, love isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s hidden in routines, in shared silences, in pastries left on railings. And not every love story ends in a wedding.

Some just live forever in an unsent letter.
can you make a prompt to create a digital illustration of this experience based on the profession or the main theme of the story