Chapter 23: The Unfinished Letter

Ren hadn’t expected to find the letter. He was digging through the back of his closet, searching for an old textbook he’d forgotten to return, when his hand brushed against a crumpled envelope buried beneath a stack of notebooks. He pulled it out, curious, and found that the paper had softened with age, its edges yellowing. There was no name on the front—just faint creases where it had been folded over and over again, as if someone had meant to finish it but never did.

For a moment, Ren turned the envelope over in his hands, unsure if he wanted to open it. Something about it felt heavy, like it carried a piece of him from another time—a version of himself he wasn’t sure he wanted to revisit. But curiosity won out, and slowly, he slid the letter free.

The handwriting on the page was his—messy and rushed, full of crossed-out words and scribbled thoughts. Ren sat down on the edge of his bed, smoothing out the creases as he read.

Dear [ ],

“I guess I’m supposed to start this with some kind of introduction, but that feels pointless since I don’t know who I’m even writing to. Maybe this letter is for you. Or maybe it’s for me. I’m not really sure yet.”

Ren smiled faintly, recognizing the familiar uncertainty in his own words. It was just like him to begin with hesitation, to circle around the point without ever really landing on it. He could almost picture himself sitting at his desk, pen in hand, agonizing over every sentence, trying to make sense of thoughts that refused to fit neatly on the page.

“I thought things would feel clearer by now. I thought, by this point, I’d have everything figured out—who I am, what I want, where I’m going. But the truth is, I don’t know any of those things. I keep waiting for life to start making sense, but it just... doesn’t.”

Ren exhaled slowly, the words stirring memories he hadn’t touched in a long time. He remembered that version of himself—the one who believed every answer was just out of reach, if only he could try a little harder, be a little better. It felt strange, reading the thoughts of someone he no longer was, yet still carried with him in pieces.

He folded the letter against his knee and rested his chin in his hand. Had he really been that lost? Or, maybe, was he still?

The weight of it settled over him—not in a crushing way, but like an old coat he hadn’t worn in years. Familiar, but no longer a perfect fit.

He read on, turning the page carefully.

“I make so many mistakes. I rewind, I redo, I try to get it right, but no matter what I do, it’s never enough. It’s exhausting. And the worst part is... I’m starting to think maybe I’ll never get it right.”

Ren winced at the raw honesty in those lines. He could see himself back then, caught in an endless loop of rewinds and regrets, chasing after perfection that never seemed to come. Every mistake had felt permanent, every misstep a reflection of who he was—or worse, who he thought he could never be.

He remembered the nights spent lying awake, replaying conversations in his mind, wishing he could go back and say the right thing. He remembered the weight of every missed opportunity, every awkward moment. And now, reading the words he’d once written, Ren realized how tired that version of himself had been—tired of pretending, tired of chasing, tired of feeling like he was always falling short.

But things were different now. Weren’t they?

He reached the bottom of the page, where the letter trailed off mid-sentence.

“I think... maybe what I’m trying to say is—”

And that was it. No conclusion, no resolution. Just a fragment of a thought, abandoned halfway through. Ren stared at the words, waiting for the familiar itch to grab a pen and finish the sentence. But strangely, it never came.

For the first time, he was okay with leaving it unfinished. Maybe it didn’t need an ending. Maybe it was enough that he’d written it at all.

He folded the letter carefully, setting it beside him on the bed. There was something oddly freeing about it—knowing that some things didn’t need to be wrapped up neatly, that some stories could remain open, waiting for the next chapter to unfold on its own.

Ren stood, stretching his arms overhead, and glanced around his room. The sky outside the window had deepened into twilight, the first stars beginning to shimmer faintly against the darkening canvas. A breeze drifted through the half-open window, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain.

Without thinking, Ren grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on. He didn’t know where he was going, but that didn’t matter. The letter had reminded him of something important: he didn’t need to have everything figured out to move forward.

He slipped the folded letter into his desk drawer, nestled among forgotten pens and loose change, and gave it a small pat. “Rest easy,” he whispered, half-smiling. “You’ve done your job.”

The night air greeted him as he stepped outside, cool and crisp against his skin. The streetlights cast soft halos over the sidewalk, and the sound of distant footsteps echoed faintly through the stillness. Ren walked slowly, his hands tucked into his pockets, the ticking of his watch steady against his wrist.

He wandered without direction, letting the streets guide him. He passed a small bakery, its windows glowing warmly from within. A couple of kids chased each other down the block, their laughter trailing behind them like ribbons in the wind. A cat curled lazily on a doorstep, its tail flicking as Ren passed by.

Every step felt lighter, as if the weight of the unfinished letter had slipped away, leaving room for something new—something he hadn’t yet discovered, but knew was waiting.

Ren stopped at the corner of a quiet intersection, the faint hum of traffic in the distance. He tilted his head back, gazing up at the stars, and let out a slow breath. Life wasn’t perfect, and it probably never would be. But maybe that wasn’t the point.

Maybe the point was just to keep going, even when the path wasn’t clear. To write the next sentence, even if it didn’t complete the story. To take the next step, even if you didn’t know exactly where it would lead.

Ren smiled, a small, quiet smile, and continued walking.

Because some letters, Ren realized, didn’t need to be finished—they just needed someone brave enough to start writing them.