Dear unforgettable,

You there. Hunched in the dark, chewing your fingers like regrets, hoping no one sees how hollow you feel. I know you. I wore you.
I bled through your eyes for years. The shadow of shame draped over you like revelations in scripture. Confessing not your sins but your lofty ambitions which will never see the light of day.

Let me tell you something that no applause ever could, or that your father would never say ever since those days where he abandoned you to live with another family. You were enough. Even when you lied. Even when you begged. Even when you waited for her to text back, like her attention was oxygen and you were underwater. Like you thought your father’s love was the unconditional truth that infidelity was your signal for love. You thought love would save you, didn’t you? That if you were beautiful enough, clever enough, talented enough— that they would see you, name you, complete you. You could feel Nirvana in whatever sense of the word that may mean.

But they were never your mirror.
And their validation was never your soul. I remember the nights you’d write something brilliant, then delete it, write it again only to lose it because the voice in your head—the one trained by rejection, not reason—told you no one would care. I remember when “artist” felt like a lie you wore to impress strangers who didn’t matter. Or who didn’t care for your expression of self in your artistry.

You thought pain was your muse.
You thought being broken made you deep.
You thought your sadness was a virtue. But listen, Your sadness was a cocoon, not a home. A cleansing to perfect your self soothing reality that expectations from others was your own self-esteem breaking from your universe.

You wanted proof you were real.
So you gave your body. You silenced your needs. You sacrificed yourself on altars that weren’t worthy of your talents.

But I’m here to say— You made it out. Not because someone saved you. But because you stopped waiting to be saved. Because one day, deep in that pit, you realized that no woman, no praise, no poem was going to hand you your worth.

You had to forge it. With trembling hands.
With no audience. With silence as your witness. You are not a reaction. You are not an echo fading into the abyss of society.You are not what they think of you, or what she didn’t say back. You are a creator.
A builder of worlds from ash. A voice that sings even when no one listens.

So now—stand up. Not because the world asked you to. Not because she finally texted back or your father came home. But because you are still here. And that is enough.

With love.
The You Who Remembers