The Love I Let Slip Away (A Letter 30 Years in the Makin) How Fear Stole My Forever and the Courage It Took to Reach for a Second Chance.

Dear Mike,

It’s been so long since I last wrote you—or even dared to reach out—that I’m not entirely sure where to begin. But perhaps that’s fitting because my thoughts have been this way for years: tangled and jumbled when it comes to you. I can only hope that this letter reaches you and that I’ve guessed right, despite sending it to four different addresses. If you’re reading this, know that it has taken me decades to work up the courage to write these words. I can only imagine how they might land after so much time.

I still remember the first time we met. Your laughter, the easy way you carried yourself, the glimmer in your eyes that seemed to see right through my walls—it was as if the universe had conspired to make our paths cross. Those two years we spent together felt like a dream, one where every day was filled with shared moments, joy, and the kind of deep connection that most people spend a lifetime searching for. I still think about the way our families got along so well, how your mom would make me laugh with her stories, and how my dad always said you were the kind of man he’d hoped I’d find. Back then, I thought we were building something unshakable, something eternal. And yet, it was me who walked away.

The truth is, Mike, I ended things because I was scared. I’ve spent thirty years trying to articulate the ‘why’ of it, to make sense of why I let fear dictate my actions. Loving you the way I did—it was overwhelming. It was raw, intense, and all-consuming. I was terrified of losing myself in you, of what it would mean to be so deeply tied to someone. I had always been so independent, so self-assured. But with you, I felt like I was falling, free and out of control. And instead of leaning into that feeling, I panicked. I convinced myself I needed to leave before I lost myself completely. But in the process, I lost something infinitely more precious: you.

Over the years, I tried, Lord have I tried to move on. Three marriages, Mike. Three attempts at building a life with someone else, and each time, I found myself haunted by the ghost of what we had. My love for you was the thread that unraveled every relationship. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, no one else ever came close to filling the space you left behind. It was always your laughter I heard in quiet moments, your smile I saw when I closed my eyes at night. And it was the memory of our love that reminded me, again and again, what I had foolishly let go.

What could we have been, if I hadn’t been so scared? Would we have had the life we dreamed about? Would we have built a family, a home filled with love and laughter? Would our families still be as close as they were back then, gathering for holidays and sharing in the milestones of life? These are the questions that have kept me up at night, the thoughts that have followed me through every step of life.

But there’s another question, one that has caused me just as much heartache over the years: Why didn’t you fight for me? Why didn’t you call, or write, or show up at my door? I know it’s selfish of me to ask. After all, I’m the one who ended things. But a part of me always hoped you would refuse to let me go. I cried countless nights, wishing for the phone to ring, hoping I’d hear your voice telling me we still had a chance. When you didn’t, I told myself it was for the best. But deep down, it broke me. Because if you had, Mike, I know I would have come running back.

I’ve spent so many years trying to find you. I’ve searched for you on every social media platform I could think of, scouring profiles and pictures, hoping for a glimpse of the man I let go. I even tried asking mutual friends, but they’d either lost touch or didn’t know where you were. Finally, in a moment of desperation, I subscribed to one of those sites that promise to help you find people from your past. When your name came up, it listed four possible locations. So, I’m sending this letter to all of them. I know someone at one of the addresses may open this and read it. I know I will be embarrassed if any one of them reads this, but I couldn’t bear the thought of not trying.

So here I am, thirty years later, pouring my heart out to you and hoping against hope that this letter finds its way to you. My life looks nothing like I imagined it would. I have no children to carry my name forward, no husband to grow old with, and most of the friends I had have drifted away over time. Even my family is a shadow of what it once was. The thought of reconnecting with you, of perhaps finding even a fragment of what we once had, feels like a lifeline I can’t ignore.

Mike, I know I don’t have the right to ask for anything from you. I know that you may have moved on, built a life of your own, and perhaps even found the kind of love we shared with someone else. But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still remembers, that still wonders what could have been, I’d give anything for the chance to see you again. To talk, to laugh, to share a cup of coffee, and to catch up on the years we lost. To apologize in person for the pain I caused you and to tell you that, despite everything, my love for you has never wavered.

I’ve learned so much about myself in these years apart. I’ve faced the fears that drove me away from you, and I’ve realized that the kind of love we shared—while terrifying—is also the rarest and most beautiful gift. I’m ready now in a way I wasn’t back then. Ready to embrace it, to nurture it, to fight for it if there’s still a chance. Because the truth is, Mike, you’ve always been the love of my life.

If this letter reaches you and you feel even the smallest inclination to respond, I’ve included my contact information. Please, even if it’s just to tell me you’re happy and settled, I’d like to know. But if you’re willing to meet, to talk, to see if there’s still a spark of what we once had, I’d move heaven and earth to make it happen.

I’ll end this here, though there’s so much more I wish I could say. Thank you for taking the time to read this, and for letting me unburden myself after all these years. I hope, more than anything, that you’re well, that life has been kind to you, and that you’ve found joy in the years since we last spoke.

With all my heart,  

Mercedes