Vihaan sat by the window of his apartment, the city humming softly beneath the drizzle. His suitcase lay half-packed on the bed. The residency in Amsterdam was real now—flights booked, itinerary printed, passport ready.
But before he left, he needed to write one last letter.
Not to Meera. Not to Aanya.
To himself.
He opened a fresh page in his notebook, the same one that had once held grief like a second skin. He wrote slowly, deliberately.
> Dear Vihaan,
> You've spent years writing to ghosts. You've built poems out of absence, stitched metaphors from silence. But now it's time to write something else—something alive.
> You loved Meera. That love shaped you. But it doesn't own you.
> You met Aanya. She didn't ask for verses. She asked for truth. And you gave her fragments. Now give her the whole.
> You're not broken. You're unfinished. And that's okay.
> Go. Create. Return. But don't forget—home isn't a place. It's a person who sees you clearly and stays anyway.
> Love,
> The man you're becoming.
Vihaan folded the letter, placed it in the back of his journal, and closed it gently.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The sky was pale, expectant.
He texted Aanya.
> Leaving tomorrow. I'll write to you. Not poems. Letters. Real ones.
She replied minutes later.
> I'll read them. And maybe I'll write back.
Vihaan smiled.
And sometimes, the most important letter isn't the one you send—it's the one that changes you before you do.