Messages From the Future Me

If I ever invent time travel, the first person I’m going to punch is me. Future Me, to be precise. Not only did she ruin my life, she did it with the most annoying feature of all: voice notes.

You’d think if someone from the future had something important to say, they’d use a more dramatic entrance. Maybe descend from the sky in a silver jumpsuit, or pop out of a glowing portal with a stern look and wild Einstein hair. But nope. I woke up on a regular Tuesday morning, hungover from bad decisions and lukewarm wine, to this:

“Hey, past me. It’s you—well, me—from the future. We need to talk. Urgently.”

At first, I assumed it was my best friend Zara doing her usual impression of me. She once sent me a fake rejection email from a guy I liked just to prove I needed to raise my standards. But Zara swore on her mini succulent collection that it wasn’t her.

And then came message #2.

“Listen, I don’t have much time. Literally. You’re going to meet someone today—his name is Marcus. DO. NOT. DATE. HIM. He’s cute, but he has a tattoo of his ex’s name on his butt and also, he steals cats. You’ve been warned.”

Now, a sane person would’ve deleted the message, blocked the number, and maybe gone to therapy. But I’m not a sane person. I’m a chronically curious, mildly dramatic woman who once joined a pyramid scheme because the rep said, “It’s not a pyramid, it’s a triangle of trust.”

So obviously, I went on the date.

And guess what?

Marcus was hot. Like, distract-you-from-red-flags hot. And five minutes into our coffee, he casually mentioned his cat’s name was “Whiskerella,” which would’ve been cute—if he hadn’t admitted he didn’t technically own her. Apparently, Whiskerella “just wandered in from an old lady’s porch and liked his vibes.”

I ended the date early, got home, poured myself some dignity, and played message #3.

“So… you went anyway. Cool. Great. You never listen. I hope you enjoy the next three months of emotional chaos and surprise allergies.”

Allergies? What?

Turns out Marcus’s shampoo was the reason my left eye swelled up like a haunted golf ball after our third date sleepover.

The Messages Keep Coming

Over the next week, Future Me sent more voice notes. They weren’t always urgent. Some were just weird.

“Stop eating that yogurt. It expired yesterday. I know you’re thinking ‘it smells fine’ but trust me, you’re not ready for what’s coming.”

“Don’t wear the green dress Friday. It’s windy. That dress is a kite.”

“Put your keys in your bag NOW. Not later. NOW. You’ll thank me when you don’t have to cry in front of the Uber guy named Babu.”

At this point, I was 83% sure I was hallucinating. I even googled “Can stress cause time-loop psychosis?” and joined a Reddit thread of conspiracy theorists who claimed Alexa had been “whispering coordinates” to them.

But then came the message that changed everything.

The One About Mom

“Okay, this one matters. Tomorrow, Mom’s going to ask you to come to that gardening class with her. You’ll want to say no—because you’re tired or busy or whatever. Say yes. Please.”

It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning, no eerie music. Just a soft voice—my voice—sounding a little worn, a little older.

I listened to it five times.

And the next day, when Mom called and asked, “Sweetheart, want to come to the garden center? There’s a composting demo!”, I said yes.

We laughed about worms for two hours. She told me about how she once lied about being allergic to pineapple to get out of a date with a guy who wore leather pants to brunch. I hadn't seen her laugh like that in years.

When I got home, there was another voice note.

“You did good. That was the last time she ever laughed that hard. You’ll remember that day for the rest of your life.”

I cried. Not polite, pretty tears. The ugly kind, with hiccups and weird snorts.

A New Kind of Addiction

Soon, I was addicted to the voice notes. I stopped making decisions without them. Zara started calling me “Nostradumbass.”

“Should I take the new job offer?” I asked.

“Take it. Your boss will suck, but you’ll meet someone named Kevin who gives you his grandmother’s soup recipe and it changes your life.”

(I now eat soup three times a week. Kevin is in IT and thinks horoscopes are real.)

“Should I text Daniel back?”

“Sure, if you want to spend three weeks decoding ‘k’ and ‘lol.’ Just go adopt a turtle instead. Same emotional availability.”

My turtle is named “Sir K. Shellington.” He blinks at me like a disappointed therapist.

The Downside of Knowing

But then, the voice notes started… changing. They got darker.

“Stop trusting Jenna at work. She’s been forwarding your memes to HR.”

“Don’t drive on the highway next Thursday. Just don’t.”

“He’s lying. He never went to therapy. That was a Starbucks meeting.”

I started second-guessing everything. I became paranoid. Was I just a puppet in my own life now? What if Future Me wasn’t looking out for me, but just trying to control me?

I ignored a message for the first time.

It said:

“Don’t open the red envelope from the mailbox today.”

Guess what I did?

I opened it.

It was a wedding invitation—from my ex, Sam. The guy I thought I’d marry one day. The one who said, “I’m not the marrying kind.” Turns out, he was. Just not with me.

That night, I sent a voice note back.

“What’s the point of this? Why are you sending me all these? Can I even change anything?”

No reply.

The Twist

Two days later, I got one final voice note.

“This is my last message. We’re synced now. There’s no more future advice because… I’ve said everything I needed to. You’ll mess up sometimes. You’ll love the wrong people, and lose your keys, and maybe get food poisoning again from street noodles. But you’ll also laugh so hard your ribs hurt. You’ll forgive. You’ll grow. You’ll live.”

“Also, buy socks. You’re always out of socks.”

And just like that… it stopped.

Epilogue: No More Notes

It’s been six months. No new messages. Life is quiet. Unpredictable. Messy. Mine.

I still check my phone sometimes, like a kid hoping Santa left one last gift. But now, I trust myself a little more. Maybe I don’t need warnings to be okay. Maybe the point of life isn’t to avoid the bumps—but to experience them, then write about it later on platforms like Vocal Media while eating soup and petting a turtle.

And hey, I haven’t dated a cat thief since. So, that’s growth.