Dear Future Me - by Nimmat

“Are you happy?”The woman sitting across from me smiled before answering. “You really haven’t changed, Mariam.”I frowned. “I asked you a question.”“And you still don’t know how to ask easy ones.”I laughed. “I’ve waited ten years. I think I deserve an honest answer.”She looked at me for a moment, and there was something strange about the way she did it. It was almost like she was trying to memorize my face.“Sometimes,” she finally said.“Sometimes?”“Yes.”“That is not very reassuring.”She laughed softly. “You’re nineteen, Mariam. What did you expect?”“I don’t know.”I looked at her properly then. She looked older. Not old, exactly. Just softer. There were little lines around her eyes that weren’t on my face, and her hair was longer. She wore a simple gold necklace, and there was something about the way she carried herself that made me realize she had learned things I hadn’t. Things I was still supposed to learn.“So, did we make it?”“To twenty-nine?”“Yes.”“You’re very impatient.”“I’ve been waiting ten years.”Her smile disappeared for a second.“Yes,” she said. “You made it.”I smiled. “I knew it.”She didn’t say anything.“What?”“Nothing.”“No, say it.”She shook her head. “You always did this.”“Did what?”“Turn everything into a question until someone gave you the answer you wanted.”I laughed. “Well, you’re me. So you should know better than to avoid answering.”“I know.”“So?”“So what?”“Are we okay?”She looked at me again. “We’ve had better years.”I stared at her. “That sounds terrible.”“It wasn’t all terrible.”“Did I graduate?”“Yes.”“Did I get the job I wanted?”She smiled. “You got a job.”“That isn’t what I asked.”“I know.”I rolled my eyes. “You are annoying.”“You said that when you were twelve.”“And I’m still right.”She laughed, and for a little while, it felt normal. Like I was sitting with an older sister who happened to know everything about me.“Did Mum make it?”Her expression changed.“She did.”“And Dad?”“Yes.”I smiled. “Good.”“They’re proud of you.”“Really?”She nodded.I looked down at my hands. “I’ve always wanted that.”“I know.”“What about my friends?”“Some stayed.”“And the others?”“You grew apart.”“That sounds sad.”“It was.”I looked at her. “Do I still overthink everything?”She laughed. “Mariam.”“What?”“You once spent three hours wondering whether someone saying ‘okay’ with a full stop meant they were angry with you.”“He could have been angry.”“He wasn’t.”“You don’t know that.”“I do.”I smiled despite myself. “So I never changed.”“You did.”“How?”She thought about it for a moment. “You stopped needing everyone to understand you.”I was quiet for a while.“That sounds like something I’d say when I’m pretending I don’t care.”“You weren’t pretending.”I looked at her again. “Was I happy?”She didn’t answer immediately.“Were you?”I frowned. “You’re doing it again.”“Doing what?”“Answering my question with another question.”She smiled faintly. “You were happy sometimes.”I nodded, although I wasn’t sure whether that was supposed to make me feel better.That was when I noticed the scar on her wrist. It was small and faded, almost hidden beneath the sleeve of her dress.“What happened there?”She pulled her sleeve down. “Nothing.”“Mariam.”She looked at me.“You know I can see you, right?”She sighed. “You were hurting once.”“How badly?”She looked away. “Very badly.”“Did you help me?”“I tried.”“Did anyone else know?”“Some people.”“Did I tell them?”She was quiet for a moment. “Not enough.”I didn’t know what to say to that, so I asked the only thing that came to mind.“Did I get better?”She looked at me. “You became human.”I frowned. “What does that mean?” “It means you stopped expecting yourself to be okay all the time.”I looked around the room then. There were photographs everywhere. I got up and walked towards them. One showed a girl in a graduation gown, smiling at the camera.“That’s me.”“Yes.”I smiled. “I look good.”“You were very proud of yourself.”“I graduated.”“Yes.”I moved to the next photograph. There was a birthday cake, then a picture from a beach, then one of friends sitting around a table. The last one caught my attention. A little girl was holding a birthday cake and smiling at the camera.“Who’s she?”She didn’t answer.I turned around. “Mariam?”She was crying.“What’s wrong?”She wiped her face quickly. “Nothing.”“You’re crying.”“Why?”She looked at me for a long time. “Because you weren’t supposed to see these.”I glanced back at the photographs. “What do you mean?”She stood up.“You’re still nineteen, Mariam.”I laughed nervously. “I know.”“You haven’t had the chance to become twenty.”My smile faded.“You haven’t had the chance to complain about twenty one, hate twenty two, fall in love at twenty three or make stupid decisions at twenty four. You haven’t had the chance to get your heart broken again or forgive yourself at twenty five. You haven’t had the chance to discover that twenty six isn’t as scary as you thought. You haven’t had the chance to become twenty seven.”“Why are you saying this?”“Because you haven’t had the chance to become me.”I stared at her.“But you said we made it.”“I said you made it.”“That’s the same thing.”“No,” she said quietly. “It isn’t.”I looked back at the photographs. Something was wrong.I walked closer to the graduation picture. There I was, smiling in my gown, but there was no one beside me. The wedding photograph was worse. There was no groom. Just me, smiling at something outside the frame.I looked at the little girl holding the cake.“Where’s her mother?”The older Mariam didn’t answer.I turned towards her. “Where was I?”She closed her eyes.“You’re not there”I felt something cold move through me.“But I was supposed to be.”“I know.”“I was supposed to graduate.”“I know.”“I was supposed to make Mum proud.”“I know.”“I was supposed to fall in love again.”“I know.”“I was supposed to be twenty.”She looked at me through her tears.“I know.”“Then why didn’t I?”She walked towards me.“Because you thought nineteen was the end of your story.”I shook my head. “No.”She reached for me and pulled me into her arms. I held onto her, and for some reason, she was crying harder than I was.“I was supposed to meet you,” I whispered.“You did.”“No.” I pulled away from her. “You’re not real.”She looked at me.“No.”My heart started beating faster. “Then who are you?”She wiped her face.“The girl you were supposed to become.”I stared at her.She closed her eyes.“I am the life you never got to live.”For a moment, I said nothing.Then my eyes fell on the little girl in the photograph again.Something about her face felt familiar.Not because I knew her.Because I remembered wanting her.I looked back at the woman standing in front of me.“Why do you know all of this?”She didn’t answer.“Why do you know what I wanted?”Still nothing.“How do you know about the things I never told anyone?”Her eyes filled again.“You wrote them down.”I frowned.“What?”She looked towards the table beside us.There was a notebook lying there.I walked over and picked it up.It was mine.I knew it immediately. The bent corner. The black cover. The little scratch near the spine.I opened it.The first page was covered in my handwriting.I stared at it for a moment before reading the words aloud.“Dear Future Me.”My throat tightened.“Are you happy?”I looked up.The older Mariam was crying again.I turned another page.I remembered writing it.Not years ago.Not when I was younger.That night.The room had been dark. My eyes were swollen from crying, and I remember sitting on the edge of my bed with that notebook on my lap because I didn’t know what else to do.I had written about twenty.About graduation.About Mum and Dad.About love.About the woman I hoped I would become.I had written all the things I wanted to know about a life I was certain I would still have.Then I remembered closing the notebook.I remembered placing it beside me.I remembered thinking that tomorrow would be another day.Except I already knew I didn’t want tomorrow.I looked at her.“You were never here.”She shook her head.“No.”“You’re not twenty-nine.”“No.”“You’re me.”She smiled sadly.“The me you were supposed to become.”I looked down at the notebook in my hands.And then I remembered what happened after I finished writing.I never got to read the answer.Because I never got to see another morning.I had taken my own life that night.At nineteen.No wedding. No little girl calling me Mum. No twenty one, twenty two, twenty three or twenty nine.There was only the woman I had imagined sitting across from me, answering questions I would never live long enough to ask.She reached for my hand.“I waited for you.”Tears filled my eyes.“I’m sorry.”She smiled through hers.“I know.”I held her hand tighter.“Do you think we’ll meet again?”She looked at me for a long time.“I hope so.”I looked at the photographs again.Then I looked down at the notebook in my hands.It was still open.Dear Future Me.Are you happy?

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