A Letter I Never Sent
Dear whoever I used to be, I keep meaning to write to you, but every time I sit down, I realise I don't know where to address it. You feel like someone who moved out without leaving a forwarding address. I'm doing fine by the way. That's what I tell people. And it's not even a lie, just an incomplete sentence. I go to classes. I show up to clubs. I sit in meetings and pretend I still recognise the person speaking when it's my turn. I got the internship, the one that's supposed to mean something, the one that proves I'm not wasting my time. Family seems relieved when I mention it. Friends seem relieved when I mention it. Friends nod approvingly. I nod too. Everyone looks convinced that I'm becoming someone. I wish I felt it. Do you remember when things used to reach us? When writing wasn't a task but a reflex. Something that spilled out because it had nowhere else to go? Now I stare at a blank pages like they're waiting for a version of me that...
