to my future self, 

one of these days, you will be here. i know you - i am you. these boxes are probably collecting dust in the back of the closet, but you are here. 

and maybe you're married, or dating, or engaged or single, but i don't care. maybe you're in love and maybe you're not - i still don't care. because whoever that is, it isn't him. 

i loved him and i still do. maybe you're in love with someone else, but there is a part of you that still loves our perfectly damaged butterfly. he was our first love, and nothing can change that. i know you know that, because that's why you've pulled these boxes out and blown the dust off them. 

i'm just writing this to jog your memory. to remind you of him. 

the following letters were what made us fall in love. 

our journals were our own personal records and sides of the story.

read all of them, please. i'm begging you. i would never think you might forget him, but if you do, if you have, read these. 

la vie est devenue et blanche et grise, mais peut-etrê que se souvenir lui donnera de la couleur.

please, remember. i need you to. 

from,

𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮

p.s. 

sorry i couldn't write like usual. my handwriting is looking more and more like his.