The Letter the old me needed to Write

Dear Universe,

I see what you did there.

It was 2018. I had a crush on a boy from work. We had that weird, magnetic thing—same niche humor, same obscure interests, same stutter. Only one percent of people stutter, so finding someone who shared mine felt oddly cosmic. Like a breadcrumb from you.

We were never a couple, but the energy between us was undeniable. One night, after pregaming a Broadway show and grabbing drinks with coworkers, he walked me back to Grand Central. Our arms were linked. Not quite holding hands, but close enough to make me wonder. I felt strangely safe, like I could be exactly who I was and still be seen.

A few weeks later, I told him how I felt. I was drunk. It was the holiday party. Obviously. He said he was getting back with his girlfriend. So I ran out crying, ghosted the office for three business days, and tried to pretend I didn’t care. We agreed to be friends. I shoved my feelings down the way I always did back then and eventually left for grad school. We lost touch.

Cut to seven years later.

I’m 2.5 years sober. I’ve just come back from a spiritual retreat, still floating on reflection and clarity. I find myself in Brooklyn, a rare and unusual setting for me, at a bar called Black Rabbit. I only chose it because it sounded haunted, like something Tim Burton might dream up.

And then I see him. Sitting in a booth. Office Boy. Same eyes. Same smile. A little drunk. He tells me he’s separated. Getting divorced. A slight smirk forms on my face. My brain short-circuits. Is this fate? A second chance?

We hug goodbye. I listen to Invisible String the whole train ride home like I’m 22 and delusional again.

But the next day, nothing.
And the day after, still nothing.
When I text him, he sends a one-line reply that says everything and nothing. Flat. Emotionless. Empty.

That’s when I understood.

You weren’t reuniting us, Universe.
You were revealing something.

This wasn’t a love story.
It was a mirror.

He hadn’t changed.
But I had.

The version of me who would’ve chased his attention, twisted herself into the cool girl, and called crumbs a feast is long gone. I don’t beg to be noticed. I don’t settle for almosts.

You didn’t bring him back so we could start again.
You brought him back so I could finally let it go.
So I could see how far I’ve come.
So I could feel that old flutter in my chest
and know it wasn’t love. It was just nostalgia for a version of me that no longer exists.

You wanted me to recognize that I’m not her anymore.
Not the girl who waits.
Not the one who shrinks.
Not the one who confuses chaos for connection.

So thank you.
For the unplanned plot twist.
For the emotional flashback.
For the quiet irony of it all.

Thank you for reminding me.
I’m not looking for closure.
I’m not performing for a spotlight.
I’m not chasing what already let me go.

I’m grounded.
I’m clear.
I’m home.
And I’m happy here.

Not every full circle is an open door.
Sometimes it’s just a checkpoint.
A quiet nod from the universe saying,
See? You made it.

With gratitude, perspective, and a little side-eye,

Me