My younger self looks up at me hesitantly, millions of questions reflecting upon her eyes. I know exactly what she wants to say. She wanted to know if I were – more importantly – if she will be alright, the how’s and the why’s of how she had gotten older, wondering if the white scars on her wrists would someday heal, if the painful voices in her head would stop echoing at night. She wanted to know if the questions would someday be replaced with answers, with reason, a calling. Something that’s fulfilling.
Somewhere, out there, the world goes on. Slowly.
I couldn’t speak, for the small girl in front of me doesn’t exist. She was a memory, a hollow shell of a person who I now barely recognize. I am currently in a world where the world simply goes on, and time doesn’t overlap in a moment of clarity wherein I could possibly speak with my younger self.
But there are still some things I wish to say.
I wish I could tell her that one day, she’d be able to bring her own book to one of her favorite coffee places. That someone would walk up to her and ask about it, because the woman at the next table saw the cover and thought it looked interesting. How her eyes would light up and her heart would swell about telling a complete stranger about her book. How the stranger would be ecstatic for her and how she promised she’d purchase a copy and hopefully have it signed one day. How it would remind her on why she started writing, on why she wanted to write.
I wish I could tell her that somehow, some things are louder than the voices. That there are small moments that are yet still to happen in her life that would make her realize it was worth holding on. How one day, someone will tell her that her words had mattered and resonated with them, the way other people’s words have resonated with her. How they were thankful for her existence.
She’ll be fine, I would say.
She’ll be fine.