A Letter to Someone

Dear Readers,

I often wonder if what I write resonates with others.

It’s never been the kind of writing that stops people in their tracks. It won’t make them weep with the emotional depth of Arundati Roy’s prose or leave a mark like R.K. Narayan’s gentle storytelling that stays with you even after you close the book. My words don’t pull, they whisper, soft and uncertain, like they’re ever so unsure where they belong.

But that’s okay. 

I write because it’s the only way I know to make sense of the world. Because the small things and the quiet moments are all I know how to hold on to. Like the sound of someone’s laughter or the space between “I’m fine” and a voice crack or even the smell of freshly cooked rice. Small yet loud, like that old sweater we can’t bring ourselves to throw away even though it doesn’t fit because it holds too many memories and too much spilled coffee. 

No one quotes writing like that.

It’s not viral. It’s not clapped for. It doesn’t make strangers cry at first glance.

But it’s the type of writing that stays.

It stays in the corner of my mind.

It stays in the spaces between words.

It stays when I can’t sleep at 3 a.m in the night.

There are days when I stare at the very few pieces I've written and wonder if it mattered. Because who cares about the girl who writes about the things that most people forget?

The quiet goodbyes, the silences that speak louder than words.

But then, I remember, there are people who cry over forgotten songs, and who hold onto old messages, the ones who never say the words but still love deeply, they are out there. And maybe, just maybe one day, they’ll read this and see themselves in it.

Maybe, they’ll cry, not because it’s a masterpiece, but because it’s true.

  

What I write may be general, but EVERY single thing I write is a wound stitched by hand, a raw piece of me that's very carefully patched together. My writing may not be profound, in fact it may never be, but it’s real. It’s honest.

I may be an amateur in writing, I may make grammatical errors, but I'm sure even the most beautiful things have their cracks. Maybe those cracks are what make them worthy of being loved.

My writing may never inspire classrooms or hang on anyone’s wall, it may never be quoted or be remembered.

But it’s mine.

Every line.

Every word.

Every pause where I didn’t know what to say.

So no, it’s not powerful. It’s not poetic. But it’s a little more me.

And maybe that’s why it feels so raw sometimes.

Because I never wrote to be understood by everyone. I wrote in the hope that someone, somewhere, might whisper,

“I thought I was the only one.” So, it does MATTER, maybe not for everyone but for someone.

And after so many maybe’s, I wonder if my writing will ever make anyone cry the way it did while I was writing this.

Yours sincerely,

A girl who loves to write.