Letters from My Future Self

Letters from My Future Self

by [Zia Urrhman]

March 17, 2025

I woke up to an empty inbox, as always. No new messages from clients. No notifications from social media. Just a plain, sterile "Inbox (0)" staring back at me, mocking me like it had every morning for the past six months.

Except today, one new subject line blinked at me:

From: [email protected]

Subject: Don’t take the train today. –You, 2035

I rubbed my eyes, assuming it was spam, but curiosity won. The body of the email was short:

"Trust me. Take the 7:45 bus instead. Bring your sketchbook."

No signature, no timestamp. Just those cryptic lines. I checked the sender. The domain didn’t exist. I even searched my own name in Gmail settings. Nothing.

Still, something about the phrasing—direct, urgent, yet oddly... familiar. It sounded like me.

And so I did what any sleep-deprived, anxiety-riddled 29-year-old designer with a failed freelance career and a broken French press would do: I listened.

I took the bus.

That morning, as I sketched a café across the street, a woman sat next to me and noticed my work. She turned out to be the art director for a local indie magazine. Within 30 minutes, I had a freelance gig. A month later, it turned into a full-time job.

I never took that train.

I never had to.

The emails kept coming.

Once a week. Then once every few days.

Each message was different, always short, and eerily precise.

"Skip the interview with Morgan & Flint. Trust me."

"Invest in Sunframe Tech on April 12, not before."

"Don’t call dad tonight. Wait until Friday."

"Buy the blue notebook. Burn the yellow one."

Sometimes the instructions saved me time. Other times they saved me pain—like the night I almost called Ava, my ex, in a drunk spiral. The email came five minutes before I could hit send:

"This isn’t how you heal."

Every message made things better. My career stabilized. I started illustrating children’s books. I reconnected with my sister. Even dad and I talked more.

And then, one day, the tone changed.

October 3, 2026

Subject: You’re starting to ask the wrong questions.

"Yes, these emails are real.

Yes, I’m you.

No, I can’t tell you everything.

You’re not ready.

But you will be. Soon."

That message stayed with me longer than the others. Until then, I never questioned it too deeply. But I started noticing things.

Like how each email made my life safer, but... smaller.

I stopped taking risks. I skipped events the emails told me to. I ignored people. Opportunities.

I became addicted to being optimized.

June 15, 2027

I was in Lisbon on a solo retreat—again, following instructions—when another email hit:

Subject: Don’t talk to her.

"She’ll derail everything. Walk away."

She was just a woman I met in a bookstore. Her name was Elira. She had a moon tattoo on her collarbone and smelled like lavender and oranges. We laughed over a mispronounced Portuguese word.

And I didn’t walk away.

We had coffee. Then dinner. Then two years together.

She made me forget about the emails. For a while.

January 5, 2030

The emails resumed. Same sender. But different voice.

Subject: You were never supposed to meet her.

"End it now. She’ll leave anyway. Better if it’s you."

I deleted it.

Then another arrived.

"This is your last warning."

I didn’t reply. I never could. But for the first time, I wished I could scream into the future.

July 9, 2030

She left.

No warning. Just a letter on the table and a pair of earrings I’d given her on our first anniversary. She said I never seemed fully here. Like I was always waiting for something—or someone—else to tell me what to do next.

And she was right.

March 18, 2035

Ten years since the first email.

Today, I finally got access.

I woke up to a terminal on my old desktop blinking:

Welcome, FutureMail Authorization Granted.

Send your first scheduled message?

I typed quickly. My heart raced.

Subject: Don’t take the train today. –You, 2035

Body: “Trust me. Take the 7:45 bus instead. Bring your sketchbook.”

I hit send.

And I cried.

Because I finally realized—I had become him. The version of me who knew every pain I had to avoid. But also every joy I had sacrificed.

March 18, 2025 — A few hours earlier

I step off the bus, sketchbook in hand. I see her. She’s at the same café again, flipping through an art magazine.

She looks up. Smiles.

I don’t know if it’s Elira.

But this time, I won’t need another email.

I’ll just sit down—and see.