⚠️ Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains themes of emotional neglect, bullying, mental distress, and/or childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised.
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Venessa didn't sleep that night.
The letter—that letter—stayed clenched in her hand, the words burned into her memory like scars on skin.
"Venessa, I know you're hurting. But this is not the end."
She reread it dozens of times, tracing the handwriting that looked exactly like hers. It wasn't just similar—it was hers. Down to the slight curl in her lowercase "r," and the smudge she always made when her hand brushed fresh ink.
But she hadn't written it.
She couldn't have.
The letter felt impossible, unreal—like a cruel joke or a hallucination crafted by her weary, aching mind.
For the next few days, she buried it under her textbooks, telling herself it wasn't real. That she must have written it in a fog, half-asleep. That maybe she was breaking down—finally unraveling for good.
But deep down… she knew better.
The letter had known things. Felt things she hadn't said aloud to anyone. Not even her friend. Not even in her own thoughts.
It knew how she wanted to die.
And it knew her sister's final words.
Words she had never shared.
Still, denial was easier.
So she kept her distance from the drawer, from the memory, from the terrifying flicker of hope that had lit something in her chest.
Until one cold morning—after another long, silent night—Venessa made a decision.
She took the letter she had written, the goodbye she had once poured her heart into, and placed it in the drawer.
Just to see.
Just to test the impossible.
She closed the drawer slowly, heart hammering against her ribs like it wanted out.
The next morning, her hands shook as she opened it again.
The letter she had written was gone.
In its place… was another.
She hesitated, breath catching in her throat, then unfolded it.
> I knew you'd test me.
I did the same thing when I was fifteen.
You still don't believe me, do you? That's okay. I didn't believe either. But I know exactly what you're thinking now, down to the fear clawing at your chest while you read this.
Venessa's heart skipped a beat.
> You think maybe you're losing your mind. Or worse, that someone's playing a trick on you.
But no one else knows what you screamed into your pillow the night she died. No one knows what you saw when you came back with help—the way her little hand had gone cold in yours. How your body refused to cry because the shock had turned your tears to stone.
Venessa dropped the letter. Her legs gave out, and she sat hard on the floor, trembling.
It was real.
It had to be.
Because no one else could've known that.
She picked it up again with shaking hands.
> I know you're terrified. And you have every right to be. But this is me. You. Seven years in the future. Alive. Breathing. Healing.
You don't understand how yet. But I promise—this pain won't be your whole story.
One day, you'll write letters back. One day, you'll even smile without guilt.
But for now, just breathe. Just believe that you are worth saving.
Please don't give up.
Love,
The You Who Lived.
Venessa clutched the letter to her chest and broke down—not in the quiet, buried way she usually did. This time, her sobs were raw, open, aching.
For the first time in years… she felt seen.
Not by anyone around her.
But by herself.
By the version of her that had survived.
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End of Chapter 6
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