Letters

The package on my doorstep had my name, but I definitely didn’t order it.

I was surprised—where could it have come from, and how had it gotten there?

Even more intriguingly, there was nothing written on it apart from my name. I leaned out a little more, looked around—perhaps I could catch sight of whoever left it. Just, then I heard a rustling sound from the corner of the house. I felt a slight fear, torn between going outside and staying put.

As I took a few more steps outside, the rustling grew louder, and suddenly, a shadow starts to run from the corner of the house toward the end of the street. I wasn’t exactly fit, and even if I tried to chase this agile, mysterious figure, I would not be able to catch them. And even if I did, I wasn’t sure I’d have the upper hand. I went back inside and decided to bring the package in, though I was still unsure about opening it.

That evening, my favorite reality show was on. I decided not to deal with the package until the show ended. But I couldn’t fully focus on the show; whatever was in that package kept nagging at me.

Eventually, I couldn’t resist anymore—I opened the package. A pile of letters spilled out onto the floor.

A pile of letters spilled out onto the floor. At first, I was certain this was some prank by the neighborhood kids. They must have found something new to mock me with. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I recognized the handwriting—it was identical to mine. Those little rascals must have gone through my stuff and tried to imitate my handwriting.

But as I started reading, I realized the gravity of the situation. The first letter described in vivid detail the day my friend mocked me for wearing glasses for the first time as a child. The second letter gave an exact description of the boy I had a crush on during high school. The third letter talked about the second project I worked on at my first job, which had gone terribly wrong thanks to my bullying manager. As I sifted through the letters, my astonishment and fear grew.

Perhaps I needed to read one of them in more detail. I grabbed the thick stack of papers and sat on the couch, randomly selecting one to read.

Letter 1

"Dear Suzanne,

The fucking thing was addressed to me—

I know how much you were hurt while growing up. I never thought your sadness was unwarranted. Not the day that tall blonde girl suddenly came up to you and yelled 'four-eyes' in front of everyone when you wore your first glasses. Not the day your aunt told you no one would ever look twice at you. Not even on the days you felt like you needed a purpose in life, only to torture yourself more by thinking your pain was meaningless compared to the bigger problems in the world.

But what you need to understand is that life happens just once—or at least, as far as our consciousness allows us to believe for now. Things won’t always go wrong, and you won’t always feel alone. Every decision you make will have its returns."

I stopped reading. The letter was starting to get under my skin more and more in a way I could not describe.

Recent decisions I’d made flashed through my mind. Could the person who wrote this letter know about those decisions? How?

Unable to resist, I continued reading.

Letter 2

“Before making your decisions, I know how much thought you put into them. But when you made your last decision, you didn’t think much at all. Why?”

Yes, the person writing this letter knew about my decision. Shock, disbelief—call it what you will—that’s exactly what I was feeling. Who could have known about a decision I hadn’t even fully admitted to myself? And how had they written this letter, mimicking my handwriting?

I pulled out another letter from the pile.

Letter 3

“Dear Suzanne,

Yes, you had a difficult childhood, but didn’t you have beautiful memories too?

Remember your grandmother, the one you used to run around as a child? She’d cut cucumbers in half and sprinkle them with salt just for you. The warmth you felt when you hid under her skirts. We used to climb the wardrobe and sit there for hours as she pulled up a chair and told us stories. Remember that warmth.

Life is filled with love, and even if it came from unexpected places, you had your share of it.”

My eyes started to fill with tears. I couldn’t stop them—big droplets began falling onto the letters. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, but the tears kept flowing.

I put the letters aside and started crying, unabashedly. Had I truly received my share of love?

When I opened my eyes, the sun was just beginning to rise. The letters were still scattered all over the floor. I thought I’d dreamed it all, but their presence on the floor reminded me of its haunting reality.

I picked up another letter.

Letter 4

“Dear Suzanne,

I know the questions running through your mind. Your always-analytical, structured, and fact-based way of thinking is now obsessing over where these letters came from. You must be losing your mind.”

Yes, I was—and I was growing angrier by the minute.

“Don’t be angry. Anger doesn’t help and won’t solve your problem—you know that too. I’m writing to ask you to reconsider your decision. Your ever-pessimistic soul has probably already dug out the letters recounting our worst memories. But there are letters about our beautiful moments, too. You just need to spend a little more time to find them.”

I picked another letter from the pile, this time hoping a happy one. But I was so sure there was nothing good in that pile.

Letter 5

“Dear Suzanne,

I know you don’t remember our first birthday, that you don’t know anything about life before that unbelievable accident. For your first birthday, our mom worked so hard. She spent days planning it, baking a cake from scratch, and decorating the living room with balloons she blew up until her cheeks turned red. She was so happy, her eyes sparkling with joy.

You don’t remember, but you were surrounded by love that day. Mom held you so close, whispering that you were her miracle. She wanted everything to be perfect.

Suzanne, you were loved—and none of it was ever your fault. None of it.

If I could turn back time, I would—but I can’t. Gather the people who love you, the ones who love us.”

When I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital. It didn’t take long to remember what had happened. The handful of pills I’d swallowed hadn’t been enough to do what I was trying to accomplish.

Everyone I loved was there around me. Their worried and angry faces stared back at me.

Then, all at once, the letters came to mind. It was me—all of it. And everything had been just a dream.