A letter from May 05, 2025

Dear Future Me, Let’s not waste time. I’m here to drag you for everything I just went through so you could sit there, all wise and evolved, sipping overpriced coffee like life didn’t almost fold me in half. First of all, you’re welcome. You’re sitting there because I didn’t drop out when I was one Canvas notification away from screaming into a pillow and disappearing into the woods. Second—remember her? Yeah, you do. The one who smiled and suddenly you were writing poems like: “She should be fined for being this fine. It’s reckless. Unfair. And borderline divine.” Bro. BRO. You turned eye contact into a whole unrequited love saga. You were in a situationship with your own imagination. You wrote 50+ poems about a girl who didn’t even know your major(maybe?). That’s not romantic, it’s a full-blown academic emergency. You messed up. You missed deadlines. You’re literally writing a bonus assignment to pass a class. Iconic behavior. Remember how you “studied” by opening the notes, glancing at the first slide, and then spiraling into a poem about clocks and lost time: “I reached for it once— the second’s hand. It sliced my palm like a blade of sand. I cupped hours in both trembling fists and watched them drip like cold-blooded mist.” Cut you?? Bro. You failed a quiz and thought you were in a Greek tragedy. Let’s also not forget your idea of “coping” was: Ignoring deadlines Making a game where people ride flying swords Cry-writing emotional poetry instead of going to office hours But hey you made it. You turned breakdowns into bars, skipped lectures but built entire universes, and you cared so **** hard it almost broke you. That’s the part I’m proud of. Yeah, you were a dumb disaster. But you were real. So now, Future Me? Don’t act brand new. Don’t pretend you were never this guy. This clown got you here. So show some respect. Sincerely, Unhinged but unstoppable, Daydreaming in 3rd person, Still your best timeline, –-Wei of this year Ahem, the full poems are under here in case you lose them: Title: HELP To Whom It May Concern— I’d like to report a beautiful hazard of the flustering sort. She walks like she knows how to bend the air, says “hi” like a dare, leaves sanity bare. I’ve filed a claim with my chest and head— heart said “panic,” brain said “fled.” She smiles. I glitch. She laughs. I stall. She breathes, and logic hits a wall. This isn’t a crush— it’s a system attack. Please send help or my composure back. She should be fined for being this fine. It’s reckless. Unfair. And borderline divine. Respectfully, Emotionally Wrecked. Title: The Clock With No Hand I tried to heal by standing still, as if pain would pass like a fever chill. But sorrow is not a weathered storm— it is stone, it is weight, it takes its form in the hush of rooms that once held laughter, in the hollow echo echoing after. Time is no healer— it's a thief in silk, slipping past with breathless grace or guilt. It never pauses for the broken or brave; it just keeps moving, wave after wave, while we tread water with lungs full of ache, trying to swallow what we cannot take. I reached for it once— the second’s hand. It sliced my palm like a blade of sand. I cupped hours in both trembling fists and watched them drip like cold-blooded mist. I said I was better, just to hear it out loud, but healing is not a bandage or shroud. It is a wound with no scab, no skin, a scream that folds itself within, a door you pass through every day pretending you meant to walk that way. And here I am— the same old scar looking for where the good years are. They said I’d forget, but memory clings— a ghost with claws and borrowed wings. So don’t tell me time will stitch me clean. I’ve lived in the seams of what might have been.