Threads Left Unread

Threads Left Unread

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: trying again

Date: 12/03/2025, 21:14

Julian,

I know you won’t read this. Maybe it’ll bounce back like the last time.

But I saw someone today — someone who walked exactly like you.

Same tilt of the head, same impossible hands.

It shook something loose.

Five years. No explanation.

And still I write like you’ll answer.

Iris

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: re: trying again

Date: 13/03/2025, 04:22

You shouldn’t have written at all.

Please delete this e-mail address.

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: re: [re] trying again

Date: 13/03/2025, 04:25

I didn’t mean for you to find me.

This inbox was supposed to stay quiet.

What I told you in Thessaloniki wasn’t the whole story.

I left because someone was watching us.

Don’t write again.

J.

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: Re: trying again

Date: 14/03/2025, 21:14

You used to misspell Thessaloniki.

You wrote "Thesaloniki" with one S. Every time.

You never signed "J."

Who are you?

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: (no subject)

Date: 14/03/2025, 10:03

You’re right.

But you remembered the wrong part.

It was always two S’s. I made the same joke every summer:

"Double S for double sunburn." Or was it double scars? I can’t recall which lie we agreed on.

You’re not remembering me. You’re remembering the version you kept.

I remember you better than that.

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: are you him?

Date: 14/03/2025, 21:14

Okay.

Then what did you write in my copy of Blind Atlas?

If it’s you, you’ll know.

I never showed that to anyone.

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: Re: are you him?

Date: 14/03/2025, 23:03

"If you lose your place, start again from the noise."

Page 143, bottom left corner.

The ink bled through.

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: (unsent)

Date: 14/03/2025, 23:06

Why the hell did you disappear like that. Am I punished and for what? Because I left? Is it your big fat ego

(message deleted)

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: (unsent)

Date: 14/03/2025, 23:22

Where did you go? Why didn’t you let me

(message deleted)

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: (no subject)

Date: 15/03/2025, 09:16

I think you died, Julian.

Or part of you did.

And whatever’s writing back now remembers just enough to feel real,

but not enough to be real.

If I keep talking to you, I don’t know what I’ll become either.

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: Re: (no subject)

Date: 15/03/2025, 19:03

I didn’t die.

I wish I had, sometimes.

I met a strange man in a long grey coat before you left the island.

He looked so out of place. Like he’d walked out of a different century.

He knew my name before I spoke it.

He said I owed him a story.

He demanded words like rent. I paid in pages.

And when I left the island... the pages came with me.

I haven’t written a word since.

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: We’re not done

Date: 15/03/2025, 19:34

Who was he, Julian?

You were already breaking when I saw you that summer.

But I thought I was the storm.

You talk like you made a deal.

But the only thing you ever traded was yourself.

Are you safe? Are you home?

Do you still have your name?

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: Re: We’re not done

Date: 15/03/2025, 21:05

I don't know where home is anymore.

I’m in a small flat above a laundromat in Belgrade.

I dream in second person.

I say "you walk into a room" instead of "I walk into a room."

Even in my head.

My name’s still Julian.

But it doesn’t belong to me right now.

It feels like borrowed clothing.

Would you still want to see me?

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: I’ll tell you mine

Date: 15/03/2025, 21:16

You never saw what I did before I left.

So here’s the truth — from my side of the island.

That morning, after the rain, you went to the harbor alone.

I followed, barefoot. You didn’t hear me.

You were talking to yourself, arguing intensely with animated gestures about something.

I couldn’t hear what you said, but I remember the look on your face.

Like you have been handed a sentence that couldn’t be unspoken.

You clutched your journal like it was a weapon.

I stepped back. I went back to the house.

And when you returned, you were different. Not worse. Not better. Just... pulled taut, like a string tuned too sharp.

That night, you didn’t sleep.

You wrote until sunrise. You wouldn’t let me read it. You never let me read what you wrote after that day.

I knew I was losing you.

But here’s what I never told you:

I left because I was pregnant.

And I didn’t know what kind of man you were turning into.

And I was afraid that if I told you, I would be pulling you under too.

His name is Leon. He’s 4.

He draws stars and says he wants to build bridges to the moon.

He asked if his dad was a writer.

I said yes. But not the kind who signs his name.

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: I’m not who you think I am

Date: 17/03/2025, 00:13

I can’t.

Iris, I read your message three times.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel first. Guilt? Awe? Fear?

There’s a child. A real one. I had been writing about ghosts, shadows, unnamed sons in notebooks I never opened again.

And here you are — telling me I actually am a father.

But you don’t understand.

I’ve done things since we parted that I can't justify, not even to myself.

I built walls inside my head so high, even my dreams can’t climb them.

Sometimes I wake up with ink on my hands, but the pages are blank

Or worse — they’re full of words I don’t remember writing.

I don’t want to bring that into your life. Or his.

Seeing me won’t fix anything.

It will only show you how much I’ve broken.

Please don’t ask me to.

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: This isn’t about fixing you

Date: 17/03/2025, 08:47

Julian,

I’m not asking you to come and be a father in a picture frame.

I’m not asking for redemption. But I deserve to know why you chose silence over us

I’m asking you to step into the same room as your own name.

That child carries part of you — in his face, his way of pausing before a big word, even in his quiet sadness.

He deserves to know that what we were meant something.

And you?

You deserve to be seen not for who you think you've become…

but for who you are still allowed to be.

I’m not reaching out to fix you.

I’m inviting you to forgive yourself out loud.

Even if it’s awkward. Even if we sit across from each other and say nothing.

Come to Berlin.

One hour. One conversation.

That’s all I’m asking.

Then you can disappear again, if you still want to.

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: There are things I never told you

Date: 17/03/2025, 10:26

Iris,

I’ve started and deleted this message more times than I’d like to admit.

Here’s what I didn’t know how to say:

I started drinking when you left. At first occasionally. Then more often. Then constantly.

But I didn’t start drinking because you left.

I drank because when the house went quiet, so did I.

You were the only thing holding the pieces together — not fixing them, just keeping them from scattering.

Without you, the days lost their shape. I couldn’t tell one from the next.

I’d wake up late, forget to eat, talk to no one.

The silence filled up with noise — old fears, small regrets, doubts I used to bury under your laughter.

And the bottle was easy. Predictable. No questions asked.

The longest I’ve gone without it is eight days.

The ninth is a room I’ve never walked through.

I’m telling you this now because you asked me to see him.

And I want to. I really do.

But I need you to understand who would be standing there.

Not the version you knew.

I want to get to Day Nine.

I just don’t know if I can do it in time.

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: It’s not too late

Date: 17/03/2025, 12:03

Julian,

I read your email twice — slowly, then all at once.

I never imagined that silence could be so loud between two people who once said everything.

Leon isn’t looking for a hero.

He’s four.

All he wants is to ask you why books have endings.

And maybe, if you stay long enough, to hand you one of his drawings.

It’s not only for Leon. It’s for me too.

I’ve carried questions for years. Not just about what happened to you,

but about us. About who I was with you, and who I became when I left.

You were the person I shared my real self with — unfiltered, frightened, ambitious, ridiculous.

Losing that… it left a hole in me too.

I’ve built a good life here. I have friends, work, laughter.

But there are things I buried too deeply to name.

I need to see you again to know that we were real.

That we mattered.

I’m not trying to fix you, Julian. Or rewrite the past.

I just want us to share a present moment that belongs only to us.

Even if it’s brief. Even if it’s quiet.

You said you always broke on the ninth day?

Try giving this meeting a name like that.

Call it Day Nine.

Let’s see if it holds.

So — if you come, you won’t come alone.

Whatever version of yourself walks off that train…

I’ll be there to meet him.

Iris

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: maybe voice

Date: 17/03/2025, 21:08

Iris,

I don’t know if I can say these things aloud.

But I’ve started to wonder if maybe I should try.

Do you think we could talk — not now, not urgently —

but… on the phone?

If that’s something you’d want too, send me a number.

I’ll call when I’ve found enough quiet in me.

J

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: Re: maybe voice

Date: 17/03/2025, 21:26

Julian,

Yes.

I think there are things we’re both carrying that sound different when spoken —

less heavy, maybe. Or just more human.

Here’s my number:

+49 170 885 3824

You don’t have to warn me. Just call when you’re ready.

If I don’t answer, I’ll call back.

No pressure.

Just… real voices.

I

Date: March 18, 2025

Time: 7:41 PM

Duration: 11 minutes, 23 seconds

(Ringing — she picks up after the third tone)

IRIS:

Hi.

(soft smile in her voice)

You called.

JULIAN:

Yeah. I did.

(pause)

IRIS:

Hey, Julian. Is life treating you badly?

JULIAN:

I’m okay, I guess.

How can it be bad when you watch life flow relentlessly through Zeleni Venac like it’s trying to outlive itself?

IRIS:

You sound… calm.

JULIAN:

Still working on it.

(pause)

IRIS:

You really want to do this? Meet?

JULIAN:

I do. I think I do.

It’s... scary. But not in a bad way.

IRIS:

Good. Because I’ve thought about it too much to back out now.

How about Thursday? Same place. You know where.

JULIAN:

God, I haven’t been there since...

Yeah. Thursday. What time?

IRIS:

Five. Before it gets dark. We’ll have the place to ourselves.

JULIAN:

Okay. Five.

I’ll try to be there.

IRIS:

I’ll be waiting.

JULIAN:

Iris?

IRIS:

Yeah?

JULIAN:

Thanks for still... looking for me.

IRIS:

Don’t hang up yet. Just... breathe with me for a second.

(Click. Call ends.)

To: old.inbox.julian@gmail.com

Subject: I waited

Date: 20/03/2025, 18:26

Julian,

I sat at our old spot for an hour. Maybe more.

I watched every pair of footsteps and every shadow stretch across the pavement,

hoping one of them would become you.

You didn’t come.

And I’m not angry. I think I’d be angrier if you had — and didn’t mean it.

Or if you came only halfway, and left something broken between us again.

So whatever happened, I hope it was true to where you are.

I hope you’re still walking — even if not toward me.

This was never about fixing the past.

It was about offering you a door,

one you could open when you were ready.

I found the laundromat in Zeleni Venac today and called.

The woman who answered said the flat upstairs has been empty for months.

She asked who I was looking for.

I couldn’t say your name.

If this wasn’t the time —

that’s okay.

Take care of your road.

Always,

Iris

To: iris.n@postmail.de

Subject: (unsent)

Date: 25/03/2025, 21:08

Iris,

The storm never ended.

The ferries never came back.

You left. I stayed.

The man in the grey coat is the only one who visits now.

He says you invented Berlin.

He says Leon is a story I told myself to survive.

(message deleted)