And Even Less — That the Woman Writing Them Was My Own Sister.
It started about a year ago.
My husband began receiving strange messages on WhatsApp — from a number with no photo, no name, clearly a prepaid SIM. And they weren’t short texts. They were letters. Long, poetic messages filled with beautiful phrases, soft metaphors, unreachable promises, and painfully detailed descriptions of what this “secret admirer” supposedly felt for him.
My husband showed them to me, confused. He had no idea who they were from. I could see how uncomfortable he was. I never doubted him for a second — I trusted him completely.
The letters came irregularly. Sometimes three in one week. Other times, weeks of silence. There was even a period of nearly two months without a single message, until suddenly a new one appeared — sadder this time, more restrained, speaking about “battles with forbidden feelings” or “the pain of loving from afar.”
I wasn’t angry.
Not once did I sense that my husband was responding, encouraging it, or enjoying the attention. He showed me everything — so I would feel safe.
One afternoon I went to my mother’s house and found my younger sister sitting in the living room, typing something in her notes app. She thought I wasn’t watching.
But out of the corner of my eye, I caught a sentence.
Word for word — identical to the last message my husband had received.
I moved closer, pretending it was nothing, and read a few more lines.
The same words.
The same punctuation.
The same tone.
The truth hit me like a slap.
I said nothing.
I swallowed it.
I stayed silent — as if protecting her secret even from herself.
Why?
Because if I told my husband, even out of pure curiosity, he might start paying attention.
And my sister… was beautiful. Truly. Long black hair down her back. Clear skin. The kind of woman who draws looks without trying. And I know men — even the most decent ones. Curiosity is dangerous. I didn’t want to open a door that should never be opened.
So I stayed quiet.
For months.
The letters continued, though less often. They became softer. Sadder. One spoke of “the relief and punishment of loving in silence.” Another of “a closeness that doesn’t need confession.”
I read them because my husband gave them to me, always asking whether this woman would ever cross a line.
She never did.
Not once.
The last letter came on a Thursday night, around 10 p.m.
It was a goodbye.
She wrote that this had been a phase that helped her release feelings she had never spoken out loud. That “even platonic love has an expiration date.” That she was quietly grateful for what never happened.
She promised it was the last message.
And it was.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Silence.
Three months later, my sister came to our house for lunch — with a new man. Calm. Respectful. Serious.
Soon they were engaged.
Then they announced a wedding date.
I never mentioned the letters.
I never confronted her.
I never behaved differently.
I didn’t feel anger.
I didn’t feel betrayal.
Only relief.
She didn’t want to destroy anything.
She was simply pouring out feelings she knew had no future.
That was her harmless, contained way of letting go of someone she had begun to feel something for.
And my husband… never found out.
As the older sister, I understood something important:
We all have feelings we shouldn’t have sometimes.
What matters is whether we cross the line.
She didn’t.
And I chose to keep this secret forever.
An anonymous story from a reader
What would you say to this woman if she were standing in front of you?