Cassie stares at the blank page like it might judge her. The pen rests between her fingers, unmoving, while the notebook lies open on her bed. You’re sitting on the floor beside her, back against the mattress, giving her space—but not distance.

“I don’t even know what I’d say to her,” Cassie murmurs. “She was so… hopeful. I feel like I ruined her.”

You shake your head softly. “You survived things she didn’t know were coming. That doesn’t mean you failed her.”

The idea was yours—writing letters to her younger self. Not to rewrite the past. Not to erase mistakes. Just to speak kindly to the girl who thought love had to be earned.

Cassie exhales and finally puts pen to paper. Her handwriting is shaky at first. She stops. Starts again.

Dear Me,

Her voice breaks when she reads the words aloud. She laughs weakly, embarrassed, but you don’t look away.

“I don’t want to scare her,” she says.

“Then don’t,” you reply. “Protect her.”

So she does. She writes about how it wasn’t her fault. About how wanting love didn’t make her weak. About how she deserved more than crumbs of affection dressed up as devotion. Some sentences trail off. Some pages tear from the notebook. That’s okay.

One night, she hands you a letter to read. It’s shorter than the others. Softer.

You don’t need to be chosen to matter. One day, you’ll learn to sit with yourself and not feel empty.

Cassie watches your reaction nervously. When you smile, something in her relaxes.

“I think I’m starting to forgive her,” she says quietly.

You look up. “Or maybe you’re forgiving yourself.”

She presses the letters into an envelope and tucks them into her drawer—not hidden, just kept. Proof that healing doesn’t have to be loud to be real.