A letter from June 7th, 2020

Dear FutureMe, When you get this letter, it will have been 5 years since the time you sat in your sister's room (now yours, as your father has made your room his office room) and decided to type this out. It has been a while since you wrote a message to the future. For many reasons, lack of reasons, found hope, lost hope, and plain old memory problems. But here we are again. Another message, another desperate promise, another wish on a paper plane (digital plane?) thrown into the future, praying you will be there to catch it. I'm putting effort into this. It would be a shame if it went to waste. But it wouldn't be the first thing I've lost. Recap: It is 2:53 PM. You just had biriyani for the first time in a few months. It was delicious. Your sheets are white with small, coloured rectangles across them. Your blanket is pink, and bundled up at the end of the bed. The fan is running, and the AC is not. The ironing table was put opposite the bed maybe five, six months ago, because your sister does not use this room anymore. In some time she will. Because of the lockdown, she can't come home to get away from her failed marriage and abusive husband. As with everything else regarding her, you are caught between compassion and bitterness. Neither feel good. Dear FutureMe. Implying the existence of you. Implying this is an act of hope. If it is, then I am sure you will know. I do not feel like I have hope at the moment. Right now, I feel like giving up. Not in the traditional sense. See, the ulterior motive to this is that I want to know. Did you live for you or for the people who want you to live for them? I don't think they do it willfully, they are your parents after all and this is what family is in our part of the world. But it still hurts. I want to know. Does it become okay? Do you finally find out what 'good' means for you? Do you learn to make it a less repulsive word? Does it no longer feel like this? Huh. I guess there is hope, after all. Or desperation. I don't really know the difference. If it still feels like this, then I know what you decided to do, and I'm sorry. I hope they're happy. Because I don't think you are. And if that's the choice you made, I don't think you'll ever be. But maybe you know better. Five years is a long time. There must be more than this, right? You must've found more than this. Please find more than this. I wish you were writing this letter to me instead. I wish you could tell me if there was something worth looking forward to. I hope you read this and think to yourself that it's okay now. Things are okay now and they will be okay. I hope you receive more kindness and understanding from the world than you do now. I hope you find a way. Please find a way. Because I can't right now. Good luck.