FROM CHIZZY’S DIARY.
๐๐๐
In a quiet and secluded village, there lived a girl named Elara.
Elara was different, though not in the way that drew attention. Her difference was quiet, hidden in the spaces between her words and the shadows she cast as she walked alone. She was the kind of girl who existed on the fringes, observing but never participating, her presence unnoticed by her peers. Try as she might, she had never made a single friend. It wasnโt because she was unkind or unremarkable, it was simply that people never seemed to truly see her.
The village, with its cobblestone streets and ivy-covered cottages, was alive with chatter and community, but Elara floated through it like a ghost. The laughter of children playing on the streets echoed around her, but none of it ever seemed to reach her. She had long ago given up on trying to insert herself into their world. She withdrew deeper into her own, where she found solace in books and the quiet companionship of her thoughts.
But something strange began to happen as the years drifted by. It started smallโa feeling of heaviness when she went to bed, a peculiar fog that settled over her mind just as she was about to drift off to sleep. Then came the nights when she would wake up in odd places: the kitchen, the front porch, sometimes even outside under the old oak tree. She couldnโt remember how she got there, but the evidence was undeniableโher feet dirtied, her hands cold, and her heart racing with the faint echo of forgotten dreams.
It wasnโt until one morning, as she walked to her post box to fetch the usual stack of bills and advertisements, that she found it. A letter. Addressed to her.
The envelope was plain, the handwriting familiar in a way that made her stomach knot. With trembling hands, she tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, and the message was written in the same familiar script.
โDear Elara, You are not alone, not really. Thereโs so much more to you than what they see.
โFrom Me.โ
Confusion swept over her. She had no memory of writing this letter, and yet the handwriting was undeniably hers. How could it be?
Over the next few weeks, the letters kept coming. Each one arrived in her post box with the dawn, never with a stamp, never with any sign of delivery. Every message was different, yet each carried the same underlying theme: โYou are enough.โ โThey donโt see you, but that doesnโt mean youโre invisible.โ โKeep believing in yourself.โ
Elara’s nights were restless. Her sleep became more erratic, and the sleepwalking worsened. She began waking up in the hallway, the living room, and on one occasion, by the post box itself. It was there that she made the connection: she was writing the letters to herself.
During her sleepwalking episodes, something deep within her was guiding her to express the words she couldnโt say in the light of day. It was as though her subconscious was fighting to remind her of her worth, her importance, even in a world that failed to recognize her.
The letters became a lifeline. In them, Elara found strength and courage she hadnโt known she possessed. She began to cherish the moments she spent alone, not as signs of isolation but as opportunities for self-discovery. The girl who had once felt invisible now began to see herself with new eyes.
One night, as the moon cast its silver light over the village, Elara sat down at her desk, wide awake for the first time in a long time. This time, she picked up her pen consciously, her hand steady as she wrote her own letter. But this one wasnโt meant to be left in the post box.
It was meant to be read aloud, by her own voice, to her own ears.
โDear Elara, You have always been enough, exactly as you are.
โFrom Me.โ
And for the first time, she felt truly seen.
โ๏ธChizzy Unachukwu
