When I was in elementary school, I used to write letters to

Host: The evening sky stretched low and quiet, painted in long strokes of indigo and silver. The train station café sat at the edge of the platform, its windows glowing softly against the darkening air. Beyond them, the trains exhaled steam, their whistles echoing like fading memories of somewhere not yet reached.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other at a wooden table, its surface scarred by years of other conversations, other silences. The light above them flickered—not in menace, but in rhythm, like a thought returning again and again. A half-open journal lay between them. The ink was still fresh, the words half-written.

Jeeny traced her finger along a line on the page and whispered, almost to herself:

Jeeny: “Kristin Kreuk once said that when she was in elementary school, she used to write letters to her future self. ‘Dear Kristen-at-16-years-old, happy birthday. I hope you’re doing something.’”

Jack: “That’s… strangely beautiful. Or maybe just sad. Depends how you hear it.”

Host: Jeeny looked up, her eyes warm yet carrying that faint sadness that comes when one remembers the optimism of childhood—the kind that believed the future was a friend waiting faithfully at the end of every year.

Jeeny: “I don’t think it’s sad, Jack. It’s hope, preserved. A child’s way of shaking hands with her future self.”

Jack: “Or a way of doubting it. Think about it—‘I hope you’re doing something.’ That’s not faith, Jeeny. That’s fear. The fear that you’ll grow up and forget who you meant to be.”

Host: A train roared past, its lights flashing through the café window like the ghost of time itself, running late but still unstoppable.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s beautiful. Because it’s honest. Every one of us, somewhere inside, is still that kid writing letters forward—hoping we didn’t waste the story.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it again.”

Jeeny: “Am I? Or are you afraid to read the letter your younger self would have written?”

Host: Jack laughed softly, though the sound was hollow, almost defensive. He took a sip of his black coffee, the bitterness cutting through the cold of the station air.

Jack: “If I wrote to my sixteen-year-old self, I wouldn’t know what to say. Probably something practical. ‘Don’t trust too easily. Learn Excel. Don’t fall in love with what you can’t fix.’”

Jeeny: “And what would your sixteen-year-old self write to you now?”

Jack: “Nothing. He’d be disappointed I turned out so… normal.”

Host: The train horn echoed again, distant this time. Jeeny’s gaze softened, as if she were watching him through years instead of across the table.

Jeeny: “Normal isn’t failure, Jack. It’s survival. But maybe your sixteen-year-old self didn’t dream of surviving—he dreamed of becoming.”

Jack: “Becoming what? Everything sounds poetic when you’re young. You think the world will hand you meaning just because you’re idealistic. Then adulthood shows up with bills and deadlines and tells you to get over it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? We spend our childhood writing to our future selves, and our adulthood writing excuses to our past ones.”

Host: The sound of a clock ticking filled the silence—a slow, mechanical heartbeat. The café’s last few patrons were packing up, their laughter fading as they stepped out into the mist.

Jack: “So what, you think we should keep writing letters to ourselves? Isn’t that a bit self-indulgent?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s self-reminding. There’s a difference. Letters to ourselves are proof that we once believed in our own story.”

Jack: “And if the story didn’t turn out the way we hoped?”

Jeeny: “Then we write again. That’s the mercy of being human—we can still answer the letter.”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened around his cup, as though warming them on her words. The steam rose slowly between them, curling upward like thought turned visible.

Jack: “You sound like you still write to your younger self.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes I do. When I feel lost, I write to the girl who thought she could fix the world. She never answers—but somehow, I always find my way back after.”

Jack: “And what does she say, in your mind?”

Jeeny: “She says, ‘Don’t forget to look up.’ I used to lie in the grass for hours as a child, watching the sky shift colors. I thought life would always be that open.”

Host: The light above them flickered once, dimmed, then steadied. Jack looked up too, almost involuntarily, as if testing the truth in her words.

Jack: “Funny. When I was a kid, I used to record tapes for my future self. I’d tell him what I wanted—who I wanted to be. I stopped when I turned twenty-one. I couldn’t listen anymore. My own voice embarrassed me.”

Jeeny: “It embarrassed you because it was honest.”

Jack: “It embarrassed me because it was naïve.”

Jeeny: “Naïve and honest are cousins, Jack. They both believe in possibility.”

Host: Outside, another train arrived, its lights cutting through the fog. People hurried along the platform—some to leave, some to return. Jack watched them, eyes distant, the weight of unsent letters flickering behind them.

Jack: “You ever think about what your child self would say if she saw you now?”

Jeeny: “All the time. I think she’d be proud. Not because I’m successful, but because I’m still curious. Still wondering. That’s what she wanted—to never stop asking.”

Jack: “Mine would probably just ask why I stopped laughing so much.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to write him back.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying in a faint smell of rain. Jeeny pulled out a small notebook from her bag, the cover worn and creased. She tore out a blank page and slid it toward Jack.

Jeeny: “Here. Start with this.”

Jack: “You really think it makes a difference?”

Jeeny: “Every word is a thread, Jack. And the moment you start writing, you start mending.”

Host: Jack picked up the pen, hesitating. His eyes lowered to the paper, the tip hovering like a hesitant confession. Then, slowly, he began to write. His hand trembled, but the ink flowed.

He whispered as he wrote:

Jack: “‘Dear Jack-at-sixteen, happy birthday. I hope you’re doing something.’”

Jeeny: “Good start.”

Jack: “What would you write?”

Jeeny: “I’d write, ‘Dear Jeeny-at-sixty, I hope you still believe.’”

Host: The station clock chimed, echoing across the empty café. Jack set down the pen, his expression softer, his shoulders lighter, as though something invisible had finally exhaled.

Jeeny smiled, her eyes glowing with quiet triumph.

Jeeny: “See? Even if the letter never arrives, the act of writing it means you’re listening again.”

Host: Outside, the train began to move, wheels singing against the tracks, carrying strangers to unknown destinations. Snow began to fall—thin, delicate, infinite.

Jack watched it drift through the light and murmured:

Jack: “Maybe that’s all we’re ever doing—writing to ourselves across time, hoping someone answers.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that someone is the part of us that never stopped waiting.”

Host: The train disappeared into the dark, its sound fading like memory. Inside the café, the candle flickered, holding its fragile flame against the coming night.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat in the glow, the page between them filled not with resolutions, but with quiet reconciliation—an understanding that the letters we write to our future selves are not predictions, but prayers whispered across time.

Outside, the snow fell harder, blanketing the world in soft white silence—a clean page, waiting.