We didn't write, but this wasn't because of any kind of failure on our part, or lack of things to say. Neither was it because everything was already complete, and there was no longer anything needful for us to share. We failed to write in a special way - failed to write, as it were, actively, in the sense that both of us were equally involved in this shared silence, a silence that has already stretched five years, and shows no signs of flagging. We accepted what could not be said, and it was precisely this that we continued to share with one another, in the absent letters that never arrived, the letters that were never even written, and yet which, I am convinced, both of us considered writing constantly, and whose jeopardy we somehow shared in equal measure.