A letter from Jan 27, 2025

Dear FutureMe, draw this. I walk into the building. It’s my first day at college, and it’s huge. I stroll around nervously, finally figuring out which class is first. The lesson seems so easy—though I assume that’s just because it’s introduction week. Well, problems for later. I look across the room and notice a lot of people. Maybe a little too many. Then, I spot a girl a few chairs down, drawing something in a sketchbook. Wait—she looks pretty. At least, that’s what I think, only seeing her black curly hair from behind. Wait, what am I doing? I’m supposed to focus. Focus on the lesson... this lesson about... how screws work, or something. This is going to take so loooong. A few hours pass, and I notice she’s still here. She’s... drawing again? What could it be? No, wait—she isn’t drawing. “Are you copying notes from someone?” I blurt out, approaching without thinking. She turns to me and nods, smiling slightly. I sit down beside her. “I sense you’re a great artist,” I tell her. She looks at me and pulls out her sketchbook, showing me rough sketches of people doing different poses. “Wow, you’re a great drawer!” I say. She smiles shyly. “I like how you made the other arm a little different than the other,” I continue. “It makes the character unique.” She gets excited as she explains how she likes to make slight changes, hoping people notice them. I listen intently, until I realize the teacher wants to lock the room. We stand up, and I listen to her as we walk out. “Hey, do you want to go for a walk with me?” I ask. She pauses for a second, then smiles. “I don’t mind.” We walk along the abandoned train tracks, and now it’s my turn to blurt out about my hobbies. By 7 pm, we’re sitting on the rail, looking at the sky. I’m admiring the view when I hear a snap. I look over at her and see an old camera aimed at my face. I chuckle. “Why do you use an old camera?” I ask. She sits beside me. “I really don’t like how phones are such a big part of everyone’s lives,” she replies. “I just want to take pictures, so it feels more... memorable, or something. I don’t know.” I turn to her, smiling, and look at her with a caring expression. “I know what you mean. Sometimes moments feel more real without that constant feeling of being disturbed by something, or someone.” I lean a bit forward. “Are you okay?” She looks at me, her face showing a hint of sadness. But then, she gives me a slight smile. “What’s your name?” she asks. I respect her way of shifting the conversation, and I answer. “Nice to meet you, I’m Torielle.” Her smile was still plastered on her face, but something told me, she really thought it was nice to meet me.