The package arrived two days after graduation, wrapped neatly in brown paper with my name written in his familiar handwriting. I recognized it instantly—Matt’s penmanship had this slightly slanted style, like he was always in a hurry to get his thoughts down.
We hadn’t spoken much in the weeks leading up to graduation. I’d chalked it up to both of us being busy—me with finals and packing up my apartment, him with his new internship across the country. Still, I expected him to show up for the ceremony. He didn’t.
When I saw the box on my doorstep, a part of me lit up. I thought maybe this was his way of making it up to me—a gift, an apology, and a promise all in one.
The Gift
Inside was a slim leather journal. The kind he knew I loved—soft-bound, creamy pages that smelled faintly of fresh paper. Tucked inside the front cover was a folded letter. My fingers trembled as I opened it, expecting words of congratulations, maybe even something about our future.
Instead, the first line made my stomach drop: “I think this is where our paths split.”
The Goodbye
The letter wasn’t cruel. In fact, it was painfully gentle, almost tender. He wrote about how proud he was of me, how he’d never forget our late-night talks, our shared playlists, the way I could make him laugh when he didn’t want to. But then he wrote about distance, about how his life was moving in a different direction, about how he didn’t want to hold me back or ask me to wait for him.
“You deserve someone who’s there for all the little moments,” he wrote. “And I can’t be that person anymore.”
By the time I reached the end, my eyes were burning. He signed it simply, “Matt”, as though that single word carried the weight of everything we’d been.
Processing the Shock
I sat on my bed, the letter still in my hands, and stared at the journal. It suddenly felt heavy, as if the pages themselves had absorbed the finality of his words. I didn’t know whether to throw it in a drawer or start filling it with all the things I couldn’t say to him.
The worst part wasn’t that he was ending things—it was that he’d chosen to do it like this. No call, no face-to-face conversation, just a gift and a goodbye folded between the pages.
Memories in the Margins
The journal reminded me of the one he gave me when we first started dating. Back then, it had been an invitation—to write about our adventures, to sketch our inside jokes, to make something together. This one felt like a final chapter, a blank book for a story that would no longer include him.
I ran my fingers over the leather cover and thought about all the times we’d imagined our futures together. We’d talked about moving to the same city after graduation, about maybe adopting a dog, about decorating a tiny apartment with mismatched thrift store finds.
Now, those futures were gone—erased with a few sentences written in ink.
The Questions Left Behind
I wanted to call him. I wanted to ask if he’d really meant everything he wrote, if there was someone else, if this was just about distance or something deeper. But the letter made it clear: this was his decision, and he didn’t want me to fight it.
So I didn’t. I folded the letter back into the journal and placed it on my bookshelf, next to the first one he’d given me. Two matching spines, holding two very different parts of my life.
What I Learned
In the weeks that followed, I realized something. Goodbyes aren’t always loud. Sometimes they’re tucked inside gifts, hidden between lines of careful handwriting. And sometimes, the quiet ones hurt the most.
I haven’t written in the journal yet. Maybe one day I will. Maybe I’ll fill it with stories that have nothing to do with him, or maybe I’ll write down every memory until the pages are full and I can finally let it go.
But for now, it sits there as a reminder—not of the ending, but of the fact that I survived it.
Final Thought:
Some gifts aren’t meant to be used—they’re meant to teach you something about who you are when the wrapping comes off.
