Fate Rewritten

Ramses sat at his small wooden desk, the frozen city outside his window bathed in eerie stillness. The past few months had changed him—he had grown stronger, wiser, more disciplined—but something still clung to him like a weight on his soul.

The mirror had forced him to face his younger selves, to acknowledge the wounds that had never fully healed. But understanding them wasn't enough. He needed to do more than recognize the pain. He needed to release it.

He took a deep breath and opened an old leather-bound notebook. The pages were blank, waiting. His hand hovered over the paper as he hesitated.

Who should he start with?

His mind raced through names, faces—people who had hurt him, disappointed him, left him feeling abandoned, unworthy, or invisible. His heart pounded as he finally put pen to paper.

Dear Dad,

The words came slowly at first, shaky and unsure. But once they started, they poured out like a flood.

I don't think you ever meant to hurt me. But you did.

I remember standing in front of you with my report card, hoping, begging for you to say you were proud of me. But all I got was a nod and a distracted "good job" before you went back to watching TV.

I remember the times I wanted to talk to you, to ask for advice, to be seen. But you were always too tired, too busy, too distant.

I told myself for years that it didn't matter. That I didn't need your approval. That I could be strong on my own.

But that was a lie. I did need you. And when you weren't there, I convinced myself that I wasn't worth the attention, that I was always going to be second place in people's lives.

I don't want to carry that feeling anymore.

I used to think forgiving you would mean excusing what you did. But now I realize it's not about you. It's about me.

So, Dad… I forgive you. I forgive you for not knowing how to show love. I forgive you for making me feel invisible. I forgive you because I don't want your shadow following me anymore.

I don't need your approval now. And I don't need your absence to define me.

Goodbye, Dad.

Ramses put down the pen, his hands shaking. A deep, painful breath left his lungs.

He hadn't realized just how much weight he had been carrying.

But he wasn't done yet.

He turned the page, bracing himself.

Dear Ms. Calloway,

His high school English teacher. The woman who had embarrassed him in front of the whole class.

You probably don't even remember me. But I remember you.

I remember standing at the board, trying to answer your question, my hands sweating, my throat dry. I remember stammering, trying to find the right words.

And I remember your sigh.

The way you rolled your eyes, the way you turned to the class and said, "Well, clearly some people aren't paying attention."

Laughter. Stares. The heat of humiliation on my face.

You made me believe I was stupid. That I wasn't good enough. That my voice didn't matter.

It took me years to unlearn that.

I used to wish I could go back and say something, stand up for myself. But that's not what I need anymore.

What I need is to let you go.

I forgive you. Not because you deserve it, but because I do.

I won't carry your words with me anymore.

The weight on his chest lifted just a little more.

One by one, Ramses kept writing.

To the Friend Who Betrayed Me,

You were the first person I ever truly trusted. And you were the first person to teach me that trust can be shattered.

I spent years wondering what I did wrong, why you suddenly turned your back on me.

But now I realize—it wasn't about me. It was about you.

I'm done carrying the hurt. I forgive you. I release you.

To the Bully Who Made Me Hate Myself,

You don't even deserve a letter. But I'm writing one anyway.

Because I refuse to let you live rent-free in my head anymore.

I forgive you—not because you were right, but because I refuse to let your words define me.

To My First Love,

I thought you were everything. I thought I wasn't enough for you.

But now I see that it wasn't about being "enough." It was about loving myself first.

And so, I forgive you for making me believe I had to earn love.

I know better now.

By the time he reached the last letter, the pages were tear-stained, and his hand ached. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the pile of paper in front of him.

Dozens of pages. Dozens of wounds.

He had spent so long clinging to them, fearing that if he let them go, he would lose a part of himself. But now, he understood—these wounds were not who he was.

He gathered the letters and walked to the balcony. The night was quiet, the city frozen in eternal stillness.

Taking a deep breath, he placed the letters in a metal bowl and struck a match.

The flame flickered to life, small at first, then growing as it devoured the paper. One by one, the pages curled, blackened, and turned to ash.

Ramses watched as years of resentment, pain, and grief burned away, carried off by the wind.

And for the first time in his life, he felt truly, completely free.