Chapter 35 – "The Person I Became"
Some mornings, I wake up and forget for a few seconds.
I forget that it's been years. That the version of me who used to wait for your messages is gone. That we stopped writing to each other long before we ran out of things to say.
I forget… until I don't.
Today was one of those mornings. I made tea the way you liked it—by accident. Two spoons of sugar. No milk. I stared at the cup for a while, then drank it anyway. I didn't hate it. I didn't love it either. But it made me remember.
And remembering didn't hurt as much as it used to.
That surprised me.
I think we expect pain to linger forever. Like scars that refuse to fade. But the truth is, pain changes. It gets quieter. Softer. Less sharp. Like a song you haven't heard in a while—you still know the words, but they don't hit you the same way.
I found an old photo today too. The one where we were sitting on the rooftop, wind in our hair, sky turning violet. You had that ridiculous grin. I had my eyes closed, laughing.
It made me think: maybe we were happy once. Maybe that's enough.
I used to hate the person I was after you left. Bitter. Cold. Distant. But I don't anymore. Because I see now that becoming that person was part of healing. I had to lose parts of myself to rebuild them stronger.
I don't write to you as often now.
Not because I don't care.
But because the silence between us finally feels like peace instead of punishment.
Still, sometimes, I write these letters—not to you, but to the version of me who loved you.
So this one isn't for you. It's for her.
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"Dear me,"
"You didn't fail. You grew. You stumbled, but you stood back up. You gave love even when it hurt, and you learned to love yourself after."
"You lost people. But you found pieces of yourself in the emptiness they left behind."
"You survived the silence. The unanswered messages. The days when it felt like no one saw you. And now? Look at you. You're still here. Softer, yes. But stronger too."
"Don't look back and hate yourself for the things you did out of love. You did your best with what you had."
"And that was enough."
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I folded that letter and placed it on my windowsill. No envelope. No name.
Because maybe, some letters don't need to be sent.
They just need to be written.