Dear The Lingering Fear That Three Simple Words Will Never Be Mine,

You have always tried to define love for me. You told me love is something I’ve been denied, incomplete, something I’ve longed for but never truly received. You whisper that without hearing those three words—I love you—from a man who chooses me, my life will close like an unfinished story, a book with missing pages.

And I’ll admit, you’ve gotten to me. I am battling my mortality at 38 years young. And in the face of death, I am supposed to find peace. I have prepared myself for the idea that cancer may claim my body, that my time may be shorter than I ever imagined. But my deepest fear isn’t cancer killing me—it’s dying without ever having heard those three paltry words from a man who is not my father.

Is love real unless someone speaks it? If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? If love is only ever felt in silences and gestures, and never spoken, did it ever exist?

I have loved before, in the quiet, secret way that women love when they fear their love is too much. The first time, I swallowed it whole, afraid that if I spoke it, I would lose him entirely. The second time, I gave it words, typed them out in an email, sent them into the void. He never responded. And now, I say it wholeheartedly to the man I share my life with, and still, there is only silence where those words should be.

At night, you curl up beside me, filling the emptiness left by unspoken words. Either I’m not enough, or altogether too much, you whisper. Leaving this world without hearing those words means I was never profoundly, unquestionably loved, you breathe. That I will be one of the few who slip through life without that moment, that whisper, that confirmation. You taunt me with the idea that I will never know what it feels like to be loved in the way the world deems most important.

But I am learning something about you, Fear.

You shrink in the face of love.

Not just the kind I have been waiting for, but the kind I have always had. The kind I have given, over and over again, without needing it to be mirrored back. The kind I have received in ways that were quieter than words—the hand that lingers on my shoulder, the friend who answers the phone at midnight, the dog that follows me from room to room, needing no language to tell me I matter.

You tell me I have been deprived of love. But maybe I have been mistaking the sound of it.

Because love is more than eros, the kind I have spent my life waiting for—the kind that burns bright, passionate, fleeting. Love is also phileo, the steady, unwavering presence of those who choose me, not out of obligation, but out of devotion. The grandmother who carries my stories as if they are her own, the people who stay through every season, the love that is chosen, not just felt. And above all, love is agape—the deepest, purest love, the love that gives without asking, the love that does not waver whether it is spoken or not. The love that outlasts life itself.

And I see now, agape is the highest form of love, because it is love that exists without condition. It is love that does not demand to be named. It is love that has surrounded me all along. And if I can accept that, then I can choose to live not in fear or longing but in abundance.

Because victory over you, my dear fear, is not waiting for love—it is being love. It is pouring into myself as if I am the greatest romance ever to exist. It is saying I love you even if I do not hear it back. It is no longer shrinking myself to be more palatable, no longer fearing that love given freely is love wasted. It is loving fully and without restraint, not to receive, but simply to be.

So regardless if I ever hear these words spoken by a man who is not my father, I will vanquish you with love.

Because I am already loved.

Because I am love.

With Love Always,

Rachel

(Prowriting Aid Style Score 100%)