Letter To My Younger Self Book Novels & Stories

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. Then Came You (The Youngers Book 1) Published by Blue Violet Press LLC Seattle, Washington Copyright © 2018 by Iris Morland Cover design by Resplendent Media All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotat

So he just read what was inside the book by himself. " 28 August 2014, This is Hikari. It was not a date that I write this letter. But It was a date on when did a miracle things happened. So, I want to write and tell someone that I wrote this letter about the day that make me happy and excited. I hope that we can share this happiness together. But it seems like- No, it was impossible I think. I don't know myself. So here, on that day there were a lot of things that happened and I never regret that I was there on that day. Maybe it's just something that kinda embarrassing for me but it was a day that I will never forget. Because on that one day, I finally face all of my shyness and go forward

They matter more then anything. I hope you liked my book. Please leave me comments if you think something is wrong or want something explained in the next book. Thank you for all your support. I want to give thanks to the people who helpped me realise my dream. You know who you are. Thank you all.

he said as he placed the pen between us again. It felt like a line drawn in blood. I looked at him one last time, not the way he was now, but the way he used to be. I tried, just for a heartbeat, to find the boy I once adored. The one I’d written letters to after I moved to Chicago. The one who never replied. I let her, the younger version of me, whisper goodbye, then I reached for the pen and wrapped my fingers around it. “You’re not selling yourself,” I whispered beneath my breath. “You’re saving what’s left.” And I signed.

The version that stood in a cold field at four years old and decided, without knowing she was deciding anything, that the real thing was worth doing even in the dark. She wrote: I hope you let yourself be that person openly. In rooms with lights on. In front of people who are paying attention. And then, at the bottom of the page, in the smallest handwriting of the letter, three words. Not the same three, different ones. I see you. ++ I folded the letter carefully. I folded it along its original creases, the ones she had made when she sealed it, and I placed it with the first letter and held both of them against my chest the way I had held the succession document in the corridor.

Six months after my final show, my publisher called. "Bethany, it's been five years since your memoir came out. We want to do an anniversary edition. Updated. With a new introduction." I was in the garden pruning roses. "I don't know what else I have to say. The memoir covered everything." "Write a letter to your younger self. The woman you were before everything happened. Tell her what you know now. That's the new introduction." I almost said no. But then I thought about all the young women out there. The ones who were twenty-eight and naive and trusting the wrong people. The ones who needed to hear that survival was possible.

During her one-hour break, Mila got her notebook out of her backpack and picked out one of her favourite fine-liners pens from her pencil case, and started to write. Hello future version of me, I don't know if I can say we have met before or not, but it doesn't matter. I mean, would it make a difference? I guess not. This is a letter the young version of you is writing to you. I hope you're doing well in your life. Have you achieved your dreams? Did you make it? I hope you did. And if you don't, just know that I'm proud of you because, knowing you, I know you've given any task your all.

I told mumbled to myself. Opening the lid their were couple of journals not just one and each book had its own name, the first book I held was named ' new me ' I couldn't help but chuckle at the things my twelve year old self has written inside and the weird designs made it look contrasting. ' My love life ' was written in an Italian font with heart stickers and love quotes in either sides, I didn't realised I stopped breathing exhaling all the air I've had it in me I opened it. Tears gathered in my eyes but I didn't bother wiping them away. The seventeen year old me was madly in love.

“It has to be done. The system can’t force people anymore. The letters will remain… but only as warnings, not as chains. That’s the only way to end it responsibly.” Her mother’s lips trembled, then curved into a faint smile. “I’m proud of you.” ⸻ Ava knelt and began writing. She chose her words carefully, each one deliberate, each one carrying the weight of experience, fear, hope, and survival. She wrote about loops and choices, about echoes and reflections, about the fire and the letters that guided her. She warned about the system, about the machine, about the power of decisions. But most importantly, she reminded whoever read the letter that they were free to choose. That they were not va

The photos felt like fragments of a life I once lived, and though sadness laced through me, it was not unbearable this time. One envelope contained letters I had written but never sent. They were addressed to my younger self, to mentors I once admired, even to my mother during a season when I felt too far away from her. My handwriting shifted across the pages, sometimes hurried, sometimes careful, but always full of words I had been too afraid to release into the world. I held them in my lap for a long time before sliding them back into the envelope. Julian tilted his head. “Will you read them someday?”