If you’re reading this a year from now, congratulations—you made it past the mess that was me.

 I’m writing to you in fog. The kind that clings to the glass and blurs the world just enough to make everything seem softer, almost merciful. There’s a cup of coffee beside me going cold (of course there is), a candle that keeps guttering, and that same half-hearted playlist looping in the background.

I’m not sure what we expect you to find here—warnings, maybe. Wishes. Proof that I tried. These words are condensation—temporary, vanishing even as I write them—but maybe that’s fitting. This isn’t a stone tablet. It’s a fog-drawn letter to whoever we've become.

The Confession: What I’m Afraid You’ll Forget

I’ll start with the truth that’s hardest to write: I’m tired, and I don’t want you to inherit this kind of exhaustion.

 Not the kind that comes from long days, but the quieter kind—the fatigue that seeps into your bones after pretending to be fine for too long. You know it well; we’ve carried it before.

I’m afraid you’ll forget how heavy it was. How it felt to open your laptop and feel like you were stepping into a battlefield armed with nothing but coffee and sarcasm.

 I’m afraid you’ll start thinking the calm days meant you were slacking off instead of healing.

Don’t romanticize chaos again. You’ve always been too good at turning self-destruction into performance art. Remember: survival isn’t supposed to look cinematic. It’s supposed to look like getting up and brushing your teeth when you’d rather vanish into your own blankets.

And please—don’t make exhaustion a personality trait. You tried that once, and it nearly became a religion.

If you’ve forgotten why you do all this—the stories, the creative storms, the long nights—then slow down. Remember the small things that kept you anchored: the way morning light spills across the notebook, the way certain songs feel like exhaling. Those moments are your compass. Follow them back to yourself.

The Hopes: Things I Want You to Find

I hope you’ve forgiven yourself for the things that took longer than they should have.

 The drafts that lingered. The plans that fell apart. The months that went quiet when words refused to come. Not every chapter has to move the plot forward. Some exist purely so you can rest in them.

I hope you’ve learned how to celebrate stillness. You always did prefer momentum—the thrill of what’s next, what’s new, what’s barely within reach. But maybe, just maybe, you’ve found beauty in the quiet corners.

I hope you’ve kept the softness alive—the one that hides beneath all that grit and humor. I hope you still tear up over songs that catch you off guard. I hope you still make too-strong tea and forget about it until it’s the perfect temperature for regret.

I hope the people who matter most are still close, and that you’ve stopped trying to earn your place among them. Love isn’t a transaction, though you’ve tried to turn it into one more than once.

And I hope you still believe in the slow kind of magic—the kind that doesn’t need applause or proof or posts. The kind that happens when you sit with yourself long enough to listen.

The Warnings: Lessons Written in Condensation

If you start calling chaos “inspiration” again, take a nap instead.

 If you find yourself counting accomplishments instead of moments, step away from the desk.

 If you start saying “I’m fine” through gritted teeth, go outside—preferably somewhere with trees that don’t care about your deadlines.

Don’t mistake stillness for failure. You know better by now.

 And stop comparing your timeline to everyone else’s. You’ve seen where that leads: nowhere good, except maybe the bottom of another empty coffee mug.

You have a terrible habit of pushing through pain just to prove you can. Consider the possibility that healing might be more impressive.

Don’t apologize for boundaries, or for needing fewer people, or for being quieter this time. The ones who belong will understand the silence. The ones who don’t never heard you properly to begin with.

And when the fog gets too thick—because it will, again—remember this: you’ve been here before. You’ve walked through worse weather. You always find your way out, even if you have to crawl.

The Interlude: What You Might Have Forgotten Already

By the time you read this, some of these memories will have faded. That’s the mercy of time—it lets us forget the parts that would crush us if we carried them forever.

 But I hope you still remember how the air smelled after rain. The satisfaction of a clean notebook page. The way your dog rested her head on your knee when you thought you were done for the day.

I hope you still have that chipped mug. The one that looks unremarkable to everyone else but somehow tastes like home. I hope you still hum to yourself when you’re sorting through your thoughts, and that you still keep that one candle on the desk even though it burns unevenly.

And I hope—truly—that you still laugh at yourself. It’s one of the few things that’s ever kept us sane.

The Promise: When the Fog Clears

If the sky’s clearer now, maybe that means we made it. Or maybe it just means you learned to live with the fog—to see beauty through the blur instead of waiting for it to lift.

Whatever the case, I’m proud of you for staying.

 For choosing to keep showing up when it would’ve been easier to vanish. For remembering that presence itself can be an act of rebellion.

The candle beside me just flickered again, trying its best to hold the light. Maybe that’s what this whole year has been about: not triumph, not transformation—just endurance.

You don’t owe anyone a dazzling comeback. You just owe yourself a little grace.

So, future me, when you find this, don’t edit it. Don’t roll your eyes at how dramatic I was. (You’ll want to—I know you.) Just smile, take a deep breath, and promise me you’ll keep finding reasons to stay.

And if the glass is clear now—if the fog has finally lifted—maybe that means we survived the year that tried to erase us.

Until next time,

 —You (written in fog)