Dear self,
who once walked barefoot through monsoon puddles,
believing the sky was endless—
I am writing from the future,
where the sky is still endless
but you have learned that even horizons
have edges sharp enough to cut.
I want to tell you which roads to take,
which silences to break,
which hands to hold tighter.
But time is a strict keeper of secrets;
it lets me watch you from across the glass,
never letting me speak through it.
You will stumble where I already know the stones.
You will love with a heart
I wish I could shield.
You will lose—
but you will not be lost.
I have seen your triumphs too:
the quiet mornings
when your pen does not tremble,
the nights you finally rest
without bargaining with your thoughts.
If I could, I would whisper,
“Do not hurry.
The world is not a race,
but a mirror.”
But instead, I must keep walking,
watching the boy you were
become the man I am—
knowing all along
I cannot reach back,
cannot send this letter
into the river of time.
And still, I write it,
because even silence
can carry love.
Read the definition of Énouement
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