The Letter Left Unsent
He found the note in a drawer he hadn’t opened in years. Folded neatly, yellowed at the edges, the ink slightly smudged as if someone had once held it too tightly. He didn’t need to open it to know what it said.
He had written it to himself at seventeen. A letter for the future, scrawled in restless handwriting, back when time felt endless and the weight of adulthood was still something he could pretend wasn’t coming.
He unfolded it anyway.
“I hope we made it. I hope we figured things out. Tell me—did we become who we wanted to be?”
The words hit like an old song, the kind that makes you remember too much.
What would he tell that kid now, all these years later? Would he lie, say that everything turned out fine? That life had a way of making sense?
Or would he tell the truth?
That life had been beautiful and brutal in ways he never could have imagined. That some of his dreams had come true, and others had crumbled into dust. That he had learned, slowly and painfully, that the things he once thought mattered—recognition, perfection, proving himself—didn’t mean a damn thing.
That the real battle was never about becoming someone.
It was about learning to live with the parts of yourself you couldn’t change.
Mumbai, The Rain That Never Lets Up
The city smelled of earth and asphalt, thick with the weight of monsoon air. He ducked into an old Irani café, shaking the water from his sleeves. The place had changed—the wooden chairs replaced with plastic, the walls repainted, but the chai still tasted the same.
The man behind the counter glanced at him. “You’ve been here before.”
He nodded. Years ago. A different life. A different version of himself, staring out at the rain, believing in the illusion of control. The tea burned his tongue, just as it always had. Some things change. Others wait for you to return.
Belgrade, The Apartment That Still Echoes
The door creaked the same way it used to. He pressed his palm against the peeling paint, letting himself breathe in the musty scent of forgotten time. This was the place where they had spent their summers, where the nights stretched too long and the air hummed with laughter.
Now it was empty. Just walls and dust and memory. He sat on the floor, the wood still warm beneath his touch.
He could almost hear their voices. The arguments, the music, the love. The pieces of himself he had left here.
Some spaces never let go.
New Orleans, The Song That Follows You
The bar smelled like bourbon and history. A jazz band played in the corner, the kind of music that made you forget and remember at the same time. He sat at the counter, fingers tracing the rim of his glass, letting the melody settle into his bones.
A stranger leaned over, nodded toward him. “You look like someone who’s been here before.”
“I haven’t,” he said. But it wasn’t true. The song, the city, the feeling—it had followed him for years. Maybe in another life, another version of himself, he had sat in this exact seat.
Some places find you, even when you’re not looking.
The Note, the Past, the Answer He Already Knew
He folded the letter, placed it back in the drawer, and closed it without locking it this time.
Outside, the world moved on—cars rolling by, people talking on the street, a distant laugh echoing down the alley. Life, continuing.
He didn’t need to write another letter to his future self.
He already knew what it would say.
“Keep going. You’re doing just fine.”
life 
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