LETTERS TO NO ONE

Amara sat at her desk, the late afternoon sunlight casting a golden glow over the pages of her notebook. She always wrote best in the quiet of the evening, when the house was still and the only sound was the distant hum of traffic outside her window. It was a strange comfort, the silence. It made her feel like she was alone in her thoughts, and for once, that felt safe.

She glanced at the old photograph on her desk—her mother smiling brightly, holding her hand in the park. It had been taken years ago, before everything had changed. Before her mother passed away, before the distance between her and her father had grown into an unspoken chasm. Amara traced the edges of the frame with her fingers, wishing she could reach back into that time, that simpler moment, when things felt whole.

Sighing, she opened her notebook and began to write.

"Dear Future Me," she wrote, the words flowing slowly at first, hesitant. "I don't know what to say. I don't know if I should even be doing this. But I feel like I need to. Like I need to say something to someone, even if it's just to myself."

She paused, biting her lip as she thought about what to write next. She wasn't sure if writing to her future self would help, but it was better than nothing. Better than sitting in silence, her thoughts swirling around, tangled and heavy.

"Things are hard right now," she continued. "My dad doesn't talk to me much anymore. It's like we're two strangers living in the same house. I miss Mom. I miss her so much, but I can't talk about it. It's like it would break everything even more if I did. I'm scared... I'm scared that I'll never be okay again. That I'll never be the person I was before."
Amara paused, her pen hovering over the page. She felt the familiar ache in her chest, the grief that had settled deep inside her after her mother's death. She had learned to keep it locked away, to avoid talking about it because her father refused to. He didn't want to show his pain, and she couldn't bring herself to force him to face it. So, instead, she wrote.
She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then continued, pouring all of her confusion and sadness into the letter.

"I wonder if you'll ever read this, if you'll be able to understand me, or if you'll just be another version of me. I wonder if I'll still be here, in this same place, with the same broken pieces, or if something will change. I don't know. I just need to ask: when does it get better? When do I stop feeling like I'm lost in this endless, empty space?"

She lowered her pen, staring at the words. It felt like too much, too personal, and yet it was still less than what she wanted to say. It wasn't enough, but it was all she could give. She closed the notebook and set it down gently, the weight of the letter heavy in her hands. Maybe it wasn't the answers she needed, but it was something.
As she stood to leave the room, the breeze through the window fluttered the pages of her notebook, and something caught her eye. A faint, scribbled note on the next page. Amara froze.
"I'm here."
Amara sat frozen, her breath catching in her throat. The faint scribbled note on the next page of her notebook stared back at her. It was simple—just three words, "I'm here."
Her mind raced. Had she written it? Had she somehow, unconsciously, scribbled those words herself? But no, she hadn't. She was sure of it. Her handwriting was neat and careful, never like this rushed, uneven scrawl.
The room suddenly felt colder, the shadows of the evening stretching longer across the walls. Her pulse quickened. A nervous energy coursed through her, but also... something else. Something she couldn't name.
"I'm here."
She read the words again, almost willing them to make sense. Who had written this? Was it possible—was it even real?
Amara glanced around the room, but nothing had changed. The silence was still heavy, oppressive, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the pen again. Was it her future self, responding? A hidden part of her brain she didn't know existed, answering her silent pleas? Or was it something—or someone—else?
"Who are you?" she wrote, her hand shaking as she penned the question onto the next blank page.
The ink barely dried before she felt the unmistakable prickling sensation at the back of her neck, like someone was watching her. Her gaze flicked to the window, where the last traces of sunlight were slipping behind the horizon. The room was growing darker, but she wasn't sure if it was the fading daylight or something else that made her feel uneasy.