A sudden rain shower started the moment I left my house. The raindrops illuminated the bright afternoon sunlight so beautifully that I couldn't bring myself to be upset about it. The place I was going to held a place so special in my heart which made me reluctant to be in a bad mood even more.
I was going home. My home—that gave me my identity, my dreams, my ambitions—the home that I grew up in. By the time I got down from the bus, the rain had already stopped. It made me happy and a little sad at the same time.
I passed by the streets I used while going to school. The streets that were as close as my best friends now felt like familiar old friends that I used to know. I started to skip just as I used to do as a child, and it brought back a gush of emotions and memories I had long since forgotten.
Going to school with my brother while holding his warm little hand, or playing hide and seek with the village kids in the afternoon during vacation instead of sleeping, or picking up a dog from the roadside and bringing it home while knowing so well that we were gonna get scolded—then wanting to keep her after with words like, "We will take care of her. We promise!" and the joy that came from mom and dad agreeing to our request.
Countless memories I can't keep track of flooded back to my mind with every step I took and with every place my gaze fell upon—the fields, the houses that have changed over the decade, that one old tree in front of our house I didn't know the name of, and the gates of our home. Eventually, I stopped in my tracks and my drifting mind came back when I reached my destination—my childhood home.
I pushed open the door to the place that was my whole world, the place that shaped me, where I grew up in until I eventually left. It was still the same as I remembered—as if frozen in time, waiting for me to come back. The backyard, the trees, the grass—everything, even my room. Though this place has collected dust over the years, it gave the same comfort as it did years ago.
I started to trace the place, remembering my old friends I had left behind—the table that gave me company on those frustrating nights before exams, the books that held all my knowledge and secrets, and the empty, rifled pens which are proof of my hard work.
Just then, my gaze fell upon a small box I don't really remember possessing. I blew all the dust accumulated at the top and opened the lid with all my strength as it had jammed from rusting. It blew open with a small boom, and all the letters inside fell down onto the desk.
I remembered just then what the box was and what it contained. It contained my dreams. By dreams, I mean what my 13-year-old self had thought of becoming—letters to the future me that I had written at that time. The future me that she had dreamed of was entirely different from the current me.
Somehow, tears dripped down my face unknowingly at the words and expectations of my younger self. I had no answer to her questions. I felt sorry reading her letters filled with expectations and dreams. I have let her down. I have let down our dreams.
I wiped my tears and started to write at the back of those letters—not to the future, but to my younger self. An apology for not becoming what she thought she would be, for not keeping her dreams and ambitions alive. Somewhere between this time, I heard something quietly in my heart—"It's okay. Thank you."
Countless memories I can't keep track of flooded back to my mind with every step I took and with every place my gaze fell upon. The fields, the houses that have changed over the decade, that one old tree in front of our house I didn't know the name of and gates of our home. Eventually I stopped at my track as well as my floating mind came back, when I reached my destination—my childhood home.
I pushed open the door to the place that was my whole world, the place that shaped, where I grew up in until I eventually left. It was still the same as I remembered—as if frozen in time, waiting for me to come back. The backyard, the trees, the grass—everything, even my room. Though this place have collected dust over the years, it gave the comfort as it did years ago.
I started to trace the place, remembering my old friends I had left behind. The table that gave me company at those frustrating nights before any exams, the books that hold all my knowledge and secrets and the empty riffled pens which are the proof my hard work.
Just then, my gaze fell upon a small box I don't really remember possessing. I blew all the dust accommodated at the top and opened the lid with all my strength as it had jammed from rusting. It blew open with a small boom sound and all the letters inside fell down at the desk.
I remembered just then what the box was and what it contained. It contained my dreams. From dreams I mean—what my 13 years old self had thought I would become. Letters to the future me that I had written at that time. Future me that she had dreamed of was entirely different from the current me.
Somehow, tears dripped down my face unknowingly at words and expectations of my younger self. I had no answer to her questions. I felt sorry to read to her letters filled with expectations and dreams. I have let her down. I have let down her dreams.
I wipped my tears and started to write at the back of those letters, not to the future but my younger self. An apology letter for not becoming what she thought she would be, for not keeping her dreams and ambitions alive. Somewhere between this time I heard something quietly in my heart—"it's okay! Thank you!"