A letter from Apr 27, 2025

Dear FutureMe, april 27, 2025 hi, love. i know right now you’re sitting in a place that feels like a quiet, endless ache. i know there are nights when you hug yourself because it feels like no one else can reach you. i know you’re tired of learning lessons through heartbreak, tired of rebuilding from things you never even asked to be torn down. you didn’t deserve what happened to you. you didn’t make it happen by being too soft, too loud, too loving, too much. it happened because some people don’t know how to love something delicate without breaking it. and that’s not on you. today, i’m writing to the you who’s still raw, still healing, still wondering if peace is something she’ll ever get to have without being scared it’ll be ripped away again. and i’m writing to the you one year from now, too — the you i believe in so much. the you who, one day, will wake up and not feel this heaviness first thing in the morning. the you who will laugh again without feeling guilty. the you who will trust again — slowly, wisely, but fully — because the right people will never make you beg to be chosen. by this time next year, i hope you’ve built a life so soft, so stable, so full of love and safety, that none of this has room anymore. not the fear. not the second-guessing. not the ghosts of old heartbreak. not the feeling that maybe you weren’t enough. because you were always enough — even when other people couldn’t see it. even when you forgot. a year from now, i hope you are standing somewhere — anywhere — smiling at something simple. i hope you have days where the past doesn’t even cross your mind. i hope you have nights where you fall asleep without clutching the old wounds in your chest. i hope you have built routines, dreams, little joys that feel so yours that no one can take them away. and most of all, i hope you never, ever have to live through this kind of hurt again. i hope love, real love, finds you and feels like breathing — not gasping for air. i hope you find yourself first. and that when you do, you realize you were never lost. you were always right here, just waiting for the hurt to loosen its grip. and it will. i promise, it will. keep going, even if it’s slow. keep choosing yourself, even when it’s hard. keep trusting that somewhere ahead, there’s a version of you who is free. and she’s already waiting for you. i love you, always. you’re going to be okay. better than okay. you’re going to be you again. maybe even more you than you’ve ever been. see you in a year, love. you’re almost there. — you.