📜 A Letter Never Sent — By Fiona McRae

Dear stranger I met only once,

I don’t usually write to clients after a night is over.
But I’m writing now—not because I need to, but because you left behind your silence like a pressed flower between pages.

We met in Room 1704 at the Fairmont Royal York. You had requested discretion, no touching, and Billie Holiday playing softly in the background.
Odd? Maybe. But I’ve learned not to question grief.

A Companion for Closure

You asked me to sit across from you at the small round table by the window. The view stretched across the sleeping city, but your eyes never left the skyline.

You didn’t want conversation. Only that I listen as you read letters.

They were from her—your late wife, I assumed. You read them slowly, as if decoding a language your heart hadn’t heard in years.

You didn’t cry. Not once. But your hands trembled when you read the one that ended with:

“If you ever forget how to feel, find someone who reminds you gently.”

Was that what I was for? A gentle reminder?

The Hour That Wasn’t About Me

As an escort in Toronto, I’ve played many roles—muse, lover, actress, distraction. But that night, I was simply presence.
You didn’t look at me like a fantasy.
You looked at me like time you weren’t sure you deserved.

Before I left, you asked me to hold your hand for 30 seconds. You said it was the same way she used to count to calm herself during panic attacks.

I held it for 32.

What You Left Behind

When I returned to my apartment, I found a note tucked in my coat pocket.

“Thank you for not asking too many questions. Sometimes, peace is letting someone exist beside you.”

Stranger, if you’re ever reading this,

Know that you gave me something too.
A reminder that real connection doesn’t always come from words, or touch, or time—but from the stillness between two breathing people.

Yours, in silence and memory,
Fiona McRae
—Toronto, where not all stories end at check-out.