A Letter to Myself

At the school reunion, twenty years after graduation, Ana did not expect anything except boredom. She had a good job, a small flat and a calendar full of meetings. Then the headteacher stood up and said that every former student would get a sealed envelope: a letter they wrote to themselves at sixteen.

Ana laughed with the others, but she held her letter carefully. She went out to the car park, sat on a low wall and opened it. The writing was round and a little too confident. “Dear Ana,” it began. “By now you are probably famous. If not, I hope you are at least happy.”

The letter had ten wishes. Learn to sail. Visit a country where she could not read the signs. Adopt a dog with silly ears. Play the cello badly in public. Ana had done none of them. She did not remember when she stopped wanting things.

The last line was different: “Don’t wait until you’re ready. Nobody is ever ready.” Ana read it three times. Then she took out her phone and looked for a sailing school. A beginners’ course started in two weeks. Her thumb stayed above the button for a long minute.

“Ana! We’re taking the group photo!” someone shouted from the door. She pressed the button. The confirmation email arrived while she was smiling for the camera, and for the first time that evening, her smile was real.

On the way home, she bought a notebook and began a new letter, to open in ten years. She started with one line: “Dear Ana, by now you can sail.”