[Content warning: light talk about drugs, implied suicide]

Going to bed has never been harder. The ache in your heart keeps you awake, and every time you doze off, you’re only awakened by the guilty, hurt, and sad feelings in your mind.

Thoughts of placing guns on temples and knives to wrists make it all seem so much easier. It could be easier.

Right?

Finally, you do fall asleep. It’s certainly not restful, but it’s sleep. And you’ll take it. But it doesn’t last for long. You wake up to hear somebody scuffling around in your room. Switching on the light, you sit up and look around the room in confusion.

“Who’s there?” you ask into the silence. You glance at the clock on your bedside table.

5:47 AM.

Great. A whole five hours early for a Saturday morning. But now that you’re awake, you can’t go back to sleep. Especially after hearing that scurrying sound.

Pulling back the covers, you slip out of your bed and cautiously walk the small bedroom, searching for the source of that sound. As you reach your desk, you find a brown envelope lying on your stack of books.

An envelope, just a typical envelope, with your name on it in familiar, hastily-scrawled handwriting.

Your hastily-scrawled handwriting.

“What the…” You pick up the envelope and slide your finger under the flap. It opens, and you pull out the pieces of paper folded inside.

Two sheets of paper, completely filled with your handwriting.

It begins with Dear younger me, and goes on to talk about how life is full of love, laughter, mystery, heartbreak, joy, grief, memories, friends, tears, and…

Challenges.

One line stands out to you:

I hope you know that no matter the challenge, you always made it through.

As if…they—or rather, you—knew that you are aching. They probably did, considering this was just an older version of you.

But how did they know you needed it right now?

Are they like your guardian angel? Is it a time-travel thing? Or is someone playing a prank?

No, it’s not prank. There were things in this letter that not a soul knew about…except yourself.

You skim through the letter a couple more times before placing it on your desk, loud thoughts swirling through your mind, but the room is as quiet as a graveyard.

“Are you there?” you call into the silence as your heart pounds.

You wait. Nothing.

But then—

“Yes.”

Spinning around, you see a dark figure sitting in the shadows by your window.

“Wait—are you me?” you demand. The figure nods. Creeping closer to get a better look, you ask, “How old are you?” Their voice sounds older than the teenager you currently are, but not like an elderly person.

The older version of you shrinks into the shadows. “No, you can’t see me! It might change everything.”

“I’m pretty sure everything already is changed,” you remind them. They shrug but say, “It doesn’t matter. What you think of me—older me—could change how you actually live. What if I was a druggie in the future and it ruined my looks? Then your future would change.”

“I’m also pretty sure that that would be good. I don’t want to be a druggie. Wait—am I a druggie?!”

They snicker, laughing to themselves as your jaw drops to the floor.

“No. You’re not a druggie. I’m just saying, you can’t see me in case you try to change yourself.”

You mutter something under your breath and they ask you to repeat yourself. Loudly you say, “I wish I could change myself.”

They stop laughing. You hear the sadness and memories in their voice as they tell you, “I know. I was the one who thought those thoughts in the first place. But…you don’t have the bigger picture.”

“Well how am I supposed to see the bigger picture?” you demand, breath quickening. The figure shrugs.

“Just…be.”

“What?”

“Just be,” they repeat. “You don’t have to try hard, nobody needs you to change for their good. And if they do…well, that’s their problem.”

“It’s more to it than that,” you scoff bitterly. “When people hate you, they somehow find ways to make you hate yourself too.”

“I know,” they repeat. “But…remember, you get through it. That’s why I’m here. Why I wrote that letter.”

Wait…that’s right—they—or you—were still there. You made it out—alive! That was reassuring enough.

“I have to go,” they say. “But my letter will stay if you ever need to reread it. Goodbye.”

They dissolve into shadows, and suddenly are just gone. The parting—so brief, so simple—left you drowning in darkness when the sound of your phone buzzing pulls you out.

Sitting up in bed, you gasp for air, drenched in sweat. You grab your phone—just a spam email, stupid thing—and look at the clock.

5:47 AM.

What?

Was it all…a dream?

Yes.

And, no.

There’s a brown envelope on your desk.