Letters to My Future Self

Letter One

Age 9

Dear Future Me,

Do you still remember what it’s like to be small?

Today I climbed the mango tree even though Amma told me not to. My shirt ripped on a branch, and I know I’ll get in trouble later. But when I was up there, everything looked different. I could see the road where Appa walks to the masjid. I could see the rooftops all joined together like puzzle pieces.

I felt like I was somewhere else. Not just Sarfaraz, the boy who forgot to do his math homework again. But someone who could fly.

If you’re reading this one day, I hope you didn’t forget how to climb trees. And I hope you still look up.

Yours,

Sarfaraz

Letter Two

Age 14

Dear Future Me,

Today Halima said she was leaving for Karachi. She didn’t cry. I did—after she left.

She was my best friend. We used to race home after school just to see who could throw their bag down first. She was the only one who knew about the notebook where I write poems. She promised not to laugh. She never did.

Do you still write?

Even if no one reads them, I hope you do. I hope you didn’t stop being soft just because the world got louder.

Please don’t forget Halima. She saw you when you felt invisible.

Yours truly,

Sarfaraz

Letter Three

Age 21

Dear Future Me,

You made it out.

You finally left the small town, the expectations, the gossip, the voices telling you, “That’s not for boys like you.”

You walked into a city where nobody knew your name, and for the first time, that felt good. Terrifying, but good.

You have a tiny apartment and three plates. Your socks don’t match. You buy secondhand books. You sometimes miss Amma’s paratha at 6 a.m., but you don’t miss hiding your dreams under your pillow.

If you ever start to doubt yourself again, remember this version of us—the one who had nothing but still dared.

In hope,

Sarfaraz

Letter Four

Age 29

Dear Future Me,

You broke her heart.

Halima came back. Not forever, but for a while. You saw her in that blue scarf she always wore when you were kids. You both laughed like no time had passed, but everything had. She asked what you were afraid of.

You couldn’t answer.

You let silence say “no,” when your heart wanted to scream “yes.” She left again, this time without looking back.

Did you ever write her the letter you meant to?

I hope you learned to stop choosing fear.

With regret,

Sarfaraz

Letter Five

Age 37

Dear Future Me,

Appa is gone now.

He passed in the early hours. Peacefully, they said. But nothing feels peaceful when the first man you ever loved becomes a memory.

He never said “I’m proud of you” in words. But he once fixed the old bookshelf you broke trying to reach your poetry journal. He sat through your first open mic, pretending to understand the metaphors.

He said, “You came from me, but your voice is your own.”

I carry that like prayer beads now.

Tell your children who he was, if you ever have them. Even if they only know him through you.

In mourning,

Sarfaraz

Letter Six

Age 45

Dear Future Me,

You’re probably more tired now. Maybe your knees crack. Maybe you sleep less. But I hope you still laugh.

You’ve loved. You’ve lost. You’ve said yes when it mattered and no when it hurt. You’ve made peace with some regrets, and you’ve held others close like old coins from another life.

You still cry at movies, don’t you?

I hope you do.

Because that means the boy who climbed the mango tree is still alive somewhere inside you. That means Halima wasn’t loved in vain. That means words still matter.

Keep writing, even if your hands shake.

Still learning,

Sarfaraz

Letter Seven

Age 60 (Final Letter)

Dear Future Me (if you’re still reading),

You did well.

You lived, even when it was hard. You forgave those who didn’t say sorry. You loved your parents, your friends, even yourself—eventually.

You wrote what mattered. You failed sometimes, yes. But you always stood back up, even if no one clapped.

I don’t know how many tomorrows we have left. But I know we used today. And yesterday. And all the days in between.

So when the time comes—go gently.

We left behind words. We left behind love. We left behind Halima’s name carved into a letter, and Sarfaraz’s heart wide open.

In peace,

Sarfaraz