As I read the letter addressed to me, from me, I was trying to wrack my memory for when I wrote it. A dear future me letter wasn’t out of the question as I had contemplated it multiple times. I just couldn’t remember ever coming around to writing one, let alone sending it.

I couldn’t deny it was my handwriting, that much I recognised, but it was the words written in that font that I was having a hard time understanding.

But I wasn’t in danger, someone close to us was.

And they wanted to stop it from happening again, in my world.

And not just in my world.

In every world.

I started with my first steps, writing the letter out again, to pass onto the next version of myself…