A letter from May 04, 2025

Dear FutureMe, I hope you’ve let go of what no longer holds light. I hope you’ve found joy in the smallest things a new hobby, a fresh morning, a self-love that stays even on stormy days. I hope the tears stopped before they emptied you. I hope you packed your bags and chased a skyline far from here. I hope happiness found you—quietly, fiercely. I hope you’ve learned how to receive love without fear. I hope you’re sober, clear, and kind to your own soul. Right now, I’m trying. It’s messy. It’s heavy. But I love myself enough to keep walking. I met someone rare. I let it slip. The lesson etched itself deep— though some nights, I still ache for that connection. Maybe the lesson’s still unfolding. And hey— I hope you got that **** job, lol. You’re a baddie regardless. Some days I feel unloved. It’s just me here, holding me up. Family? Mostly chaos. Mostly pain. I want to leave, but the fear still clings. I’ve been thinking about therapy. Even ChatGPT’s tired of my late-night spirals. I’m out more now. But it’s all ***, hookups, fleeting warmth. I miss conversations about love. Why am I the only romantic in the room? Why does intimacy feel so far away— like something I’m scared to want, but desperate to find? I hope you’ve unlearned that fear. It’s the biggest one I’ve carried. Still love your wavy hair? (I do.) I hope you love your smile, your vibe, your softness. I hope you’re not that sharp-edged version of us anymore. That old situationship taught us something. I hope Future means healed, vulnerable, and real. This letter comes from my new phone— the first one I bought myself. Grown woman things. I hope you choose you every morning. I hope you saw The Weeknd again and felt everything. I want to stay a teenager forever, but I hope you grew into love, not just longing. I hope you are loved— not lusted, not chased, but held. I know you cried reading this. Yk I love you. Always, Your girl, Jasm 🤍