I have an ardent confession to make: I love love.
Not the kind where you keep your options in a shopping cart, swiping left and right like you’re browsing for a winter coat. Not the kind where you meet someone twice, tell them they feel like home, and then disappear from the face of the planet. Not the kind where you bask in the warmth of a “what are we?” conversation when you’ve already met their mum. And certainly not the kind where affection arrives in the form of “you up?” at 3 a.m.
I love love: the kind where you buy them flowers just because; where you remember the little things, some told, some observed. The kind where you keep a secret list of their likes and dislikes in your Notes app; where you write silly little love missives, i’s dotted with hearts, and slip them into their bag. The kind where you soak paper in coffee, spray it with your perfume and post letters that smell like you. The gut-wrenchingly vulnerable kind of love.
And oh, love letters! I love love in love letters. Because what do you mean you sat down, picked up a pen, and poured your feelings onto paper, knowing those words would endure? Love letters once carried the weight of human emotion, but maybe we don’t want to confront that weight anymore. Maybe knowing you can always just ghost someone feels safer. Maybe we fear the vulnerability, and lack the sheer courage it takes to send something we can’t edit, can’t unsend, can’t delete. After all, it takes time for ink on paper to fade.
My fervent interest in the disappearance of love letters led me to Kafka’s Letters to Milena, a poignant glimpse into what love once looked like on paper.
If you don’t know Franz Kafka (which, honestly, loser behaviour), here’s a crash course: brilliant, existentially tortured, and pathetically in love. A man obsessed with writing letters. His letters to Milena Jesenská, his long-time lover, are some of the most intimate insights into his mind.
Now that I’ve read the book, and based on the multiple love letters my friends have penned for me over time, here’s how to (and how not to) write a love letter.
- Lost for words, not lost for love
Your love letter doesn’t need to begin with a grand, sweeping declaration of eternal devotion. You don’t need to overthink it. Just start writing.
A lot of Kafka’s letters to Milena are simply him describing his day, his surroundings, and the way the world feels without her in it:
“I’m living quite well here, the mortal body could hardly stand more care. The balcony outside my room is sunk into a garden, overgrown and covered with blooming bushes… Lizards and birds, unlikely couples, come visit me: I would very much like to share Meran with you.”
He describes the world around him and says, I wish you were here. That’s it. That’s love.
Love isn’t just grand gestures; it’s the desire to share even the most mundane moments with someone. It’s missing them, not just when you’re alone but in a room full of distractions too. Write, no matter how trivial your thoughts seem. Ultimately, it’s the sentiment that counts.
- Say what you mean, mean what you feel
In one letter, Milena tells Kafka she loves him, but she also loves her husband, Pollak, and will never leave him.
Emotionally devastating? Yes. Diabolical? Yes.
But at least they’re honest with each other. They both know where they stand.
A love letter must be steeped in truth, a sincere reflection of your heart. Be clear in your intentions, and for the love of all that matters, don’t twist something as sacred as a love letter into a tool for manipulation or love-bombing. It should resonate with authenticity, so that even decades later, when discovered in a forgotten shoebox, its essence remains as vibrant and true as the day it was penned.
- You can be vulnerable without being a walking red flag (unlike Kafka)
“Perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most—you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love.”
Look, I love vulnerability. I love raw, messy, unfiltered emotion as much as the next person. But there’s a fine line between being deeply romantic and concerningly unhinged. Kafka, unfortunately, did not know where that line was.
You, however, should.
Pour your heart out, yes. Tell them how much they mean to you. But maybe don’t write things that make them question whether they need to file a restraining order. Aim for endearment, not distress. Love letters should leave the reader feeling adored, not burdened.
- Beware: love is both glory and doom
“I wrote you a note from Prague and then from Meran. I have not received any answer. It so happens the notes did not require a particularly prompt reply and if your silence is nothing more than a sign of relative well-being, then I am completely satisfied.”
Kafka writes every day. He writes without expecting a response. Because perhaps the greatest joy of love was always being able to express it.
Now, I’m not telling you to flood your crush’s inbox with a thousand love letters even after they’ve clearly rejected you. I am not enabling that behaviour.
All I am saying is, don’t be afraid to let people know what they mean to you. Just don’t expect too much in return. As much as it sucks, sometimes HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU. But then there is always that lucky possibility that they adore you just as much as you do. You’ll never know until you deliver that letter.
Kafka is overwhelming and raw in his honesty. Would a modern-day Milena be charmed by Kafka’s letters, or would she block him for sending messages at dawn that sound like existential crises? Who knows.
Letters to Milena reminds us that love–real, heart-wrenching love, is worth writing down.
Sure: we’re all hustling through life, our emotions are condensed into emoji quick-reactions and hastily-composed replies to Instagram stories, and vulnerability feels more like a risk than a rite. Who has time for grandiloquent prose when doom scrolling is afoot and another “seen” notification waits to be artfully ignored? Love letters are a high-stakes gamble with scant returns.
But here’s a little secret: I still have every note and letter I’ve ever received, lovingly placed on my bedside table. Some are from people who have since become strangers to me, while others are from those I speak to every day. Regardless, I cherish the habit of revisiting them every few weeks.
People often lose sight of how loved they are, no matter how many cutesy reels you send their way. Love letters, however, ensure that this truth remains vivid and undeniable.
So, write one. Let the people you love know you love them. It will always be worth every effort.
We acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Woroni, Woroni Radio and Woroni TV are created, edited, published, printed and distributed. We pay our respects to Elders past and present. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.