Dear old me,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all the things I didn’t do. I’m sorry about everything I didn’t accomplish. I hope you aren’t too mad at me. I hope regret is last on your list of emotions.
I’m so worried about you. I’m so worried that your knees hurt too much because mine already do. I’m so worried that you’re mad at me for all the back handsprings I didn’t go for, for all the questions I never asked.
I hope we don’t have the same unfulfilled dreams. Please forgive me for wishing away my childhood because this wasn’t the world I wanted. I hope you have made this world into the one we’ve always dreamt of.
I think about you all the time. I think about what you must think of me. I’m trying so hard not to disappoint you. I’m praying that wherever you are, you’re happy.
I hope that your hair is still down past your waistband. I hope it’s grey like our mothers and you spend hours brushing it every week.
I hope you are living in roomfuls of books. I hope that annotated classics brush your shoulders every morning when you step out of bed.
I hope that your eyes are still just as blue and surrounded by more smile lines than worry ones. I hope you don’t spend your days in the past. Please don’t think about me as much as I think about you. This is all okay, I promise. I’m okay here, but I can’t wait to meet you.
Someday, I’ll look into the mirror and see you instead of me. I’m dreading it, but I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you for everything you’ve done, everything that it took too long to do. Don’t worry about me.
Don’t think about me any more than you have to.
I’m just a memory to you, and I’m sure I’m already fading around the edges, but it’s okay, I swear. I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that you won’t know me forever. I’m trying to document every moment of my life for you.
Please don’t be mad at me for not journaling more. I swear I’ve tried, but it just never works. Maybe you can. I hope you sit on a balcony every night looking over whichever city you call home and throw yourself into a sea of words.
You’re sitting under the same stars as me. Hopefully, you can see more of them, not less. Hopefully, you know more about them than I do. I hope that even if I am forgotten to you, even if you simply cannot remember my favorite song, best friend’s name, or what my chipped red nail polish looks like, I am replaced by knowledge.
I hope that what I have become to you is more important than I am right now. I hope that I have turned into years of analyzed books and collections of poetry. I hope that you can spout quotes, facts, and snippets of knowledge that embed themselves in others.
I’m sorry for staying in bed too late; I’m sorry for being on my phone too long. I hope the B- or ten didn’t ruin your life as much as I’m worried it will.
I hope your cupboards are stocked with chocolate and cereal and you have tattoos that you don’t regret. I hope you still paint your fingernails red and you have a better sense of style than I do.
Please tell me that you got over not being able to listen to people chew. Maybe you’re better at cleaning your room than I am.
I hope you’re there. I hope you’re telling me to forgive myself for the compilation of moments that are tinted in guilt. I hope you’re telling me that maybe I’m not a terrible person, maybe I’m just a fifteen-year-old girl, and I have so much of my life ahead of me.
I hope you’re no longer haunted the way I am. I’m afraid of being a dreamer, a reader. I’m afraid that I’ve ruined my life for this. Please say you’ve come to terms with all the books you’ll never read and all the art you’ll never see.
Above all, I hope you love me for all I’ve done and all I haven’t, for all I will and won’t.
Sincerely,
Young me
