Chapter 7 Letters To The Future
1040 Words
The idea came to her quietly, like most things in Malliah’s life.
She was sitting at her desk, the window open to the soft breeze of a Tagaytay morning, when she looked at her journal and thought: What if this could be more? Not just scattered entries and fragments of thought, but a book—a collection of stories, poems, and letters that traced her journey from silence to voice.
She didn’t know where to begin. She only knew she had to.
The working title was simple: Letters to the Future.
It wasn’t just about her. It was about the students she mentored, the people she’d met, the girl she used to be. It was about the echoes she’d collected—the ones that shaped her, broke her, rebuilt her.
She started with the letter she’d written to herself after the showcase in Batangas:
Dear Malliah, you did it. You spoke. You were heard. And they didn’t run. They stayed. They listened. You are not invisible. You are not small. You are becoming. And that is the most beautiful thing.
She typed it into a blank document, then stared at the blinking cursor.
It felt like a beginning.
The writing process was slow, deliberate. Each morning, she woke early, brewed coffee, and sat at her desk with her notebook and laptop. She transcribed journal entries, revised poems, and expanded short stories. She wrote about the mango tree, about Eli’s camera, about the first time she read aloud in public.
She wrote about Joshua.
Not as a love story. But as a turning point.
There was a boy who saw me before I saw myself. He didn’t ask me to change. He didn’t ask me to speak. He just listened. And in that listening, I began to hear my own voice.
She didn’t know if he’d ever read it. She didn’t write it for him. She wrote it for a girl who once believed she had nothing worth saying.
One afternoon, while revising a piece about mentorship, she received a message from Ms. Reyes.
Hi Malliah, A former student of mine, is hosting a literary panel in Manila next month. They’re inviting emerging voices to speak about writing as healing. I thought of you. Interested?
Malliah stared at the screen.
Writing as healing.
She replied: Yes. I’d be honored.
The panel was held at a small bookstore tucked between coffee shops and art galleries in Quezon City. The space was intimate—wooden floors, warm lighting, shelves filled with poetry and philosophy. The audience was a mix of students, writers, and curious strangers.
Malliah sat beside two other panelists—a spoken word artist and a novelist. When it was her turn to speak, she stood, notebook in hand, and began:
“I used to think healing was something that happened in silence. That if I stayed quiet long enough, the pain would dissolve. But I’ve learned that healing is noisy. It’s messy. It’s full of words we’re afraid to say. And writing permitted me to say them.”
She shared excerpts from her manuscript. She talked about mentorship, about grief, about the power of being seen. She didn’t cry. But others did.
After the panel, a woman approached her. She looked familiar—older now, but unmistakable.
“Malliah?” she asked.
Malliah blinked. “Yes?”
“I’m Joshua’s sister.”
Her name was Clarisse.
She hadn’t changed much—still poised, still radiant. But there was a softness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“I read your piece in the journal,” she said. “The one about the boy who listened.”
Malliah nodded, unsure what to say.
“He read it too,” Clarisse added. “He knew it was about him.”
Malliah’s heart thudded.
“He’s back in the country,” Clarisse continued. “Just for a few weeks. He’s staying in San Rafael. He asked me not to say anything, but… I thought you should know.”
Malliah didn’t respond.
She didn’t know how.
That night, she sat beneath the mango tree, notebook open, stars blinking overhead.
She wrote:
Dear Joshua, I don’t know if we’ll speak again. I don’t know if we need to. But I want you to know that your silence was never empty. It was full of meaning. And I carried it with me. Thank you for listening. Thank you for seeing me. I see you too.
She didn’t send it.
She didn’t need to.
The next morning, she received a message.
Hi Malliah, I hope this isn’t too forward. I’m in town for a few days. Would you like to meet? —Joshua
She stared at the screen.
Then typed: Yes. I’d like that.
They met at a café overlooking Taal Lake. The view was breathtaking—mist rising from the water, the volcano quiet in the distance. Joshua was already there, seated by the window, a book in hand.
He stood when he saw her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
They sat.
They didn’t rush.
They didn’t pretend.
Joshua looked at her, eyes gentle. “I read your manuscript.”
Malliah smiled. “I didn’t know it was public yet.”
“Clarisse shared it. I hope that’s okay.”
“It is.”
He paused. “You wrote beautifully. Honestly.”
“I had to.”
He nodded. “I saw myself in your words. Not just the boy who listened. But the boy who didn’t know how to speak.”
Malliah looked at him. “You spoke. Just not with words.”
Joshua smiled. “You heard me anyway.”
They sat in silence, watching the lake shimmer.
“I don’t know what this is,” he said. “I don’t know what we are now.”
Malliah nodded. “Me neither.”
“But I’m glad we’re here.”
“Me too.”
They didn’t make promises.
They didn’t rewrite the past.
They simply shared the present.
And that was enough.
The chapter closes with Malliah returning home, manuscript in hand, heart steady. She writes:
December 2 Healing isn’t a destination. It’s a bridge. And every word is a step. I’m walking. I’m writing. I’m ready.
- Writer
