How are you? Have you been well? Are you in good health? I hope so.
This is you writing, ten years later in your future. You may be wondering why I’m writing for you in the first place.
It’s because I have something to tell you.
I know you very well. You, academically, are the best kid in school. Even when you’ve graduated, you’d held the title of valedictorian, as your marks at national exam were outstanding, the highest in town. No one in school could beat your score at almost every subject.
Oh, and maybe you’ve known that your IQ is the highest in the entire school.
Alas, you’re unhappy.
I know. The happiness from getting those scores was just as plain as a plain paper–it wouldn’t last long. It’s because you’ve become too ambitious, too craving for those A+ or 10.00 marks. And I tell you, it is not healthy. At all. Your IQ may be the highest, but your EQ and SQ? Definitely lowest.
Because even with those glamour marks, scores, and points, you’re alone. Pointless. You don’t know how to make friends. You don’t know how to socialize.
Your social skill is freaking poor. You didn’t even know how to say hello to someone that sat next to you–you had to show her that you finished those math problems quickly so she could see your answers, finally she would ask for your name.
Yes, you are pathetic.
Do you want to know what would happen if you continue this lying?
You would conceal everything. You hide all of your sadness, all of your happiness, in that fake smiles. You would say, “I’m okay”, “I’m fine”, “Don’t think that much about me.” “I guess I should head back studying.” Oh, I think you’ve already said those things, too. It’s only a matter of time before you explode. And I don’t want to tell you what the explosion would be. Let that be my part only. You still have a long way to go.
You are lucky, Gar. You are, because here I am, 10 years after, writing this in such an agony, eagerly hope that this letter would somehow could reach you, in any way that I wouldn’t care much as long as this letter reaches you, for telling you a little thing that would have changed my life had I done this before.
And I want you to change your life. There is something that I want you to do. A thing that I couldn’t do. A thing that I had been surrendered of.
Remember when you turned down the invitation to come to the farewell party?
You said that you couldn’t go.
All of the teachers and classmates accept your lying that you would go to Bali that night, sadly, because they knew that they wouldn’t meet you again.
But both of us know that you just sat alone in your room that night, studying for the scholarship’s admission test with such a broken heart, and you tried to held your tears as much as you can. You sure wanted to come to see your friends for the last time. For saying that you’re sorry.
For saying, “Sorry for turned down your invitation. Actually I’m not what you’ve said before–I’m not designed for studying. Of course I want to become your friend, even if the friendship lasts for just one night only.”
I tell you, had you come, you would have held good high school’s memories that you’ll keep dear, very dear. And on top of that, you would have made friends. Your best friend-to-be will wait at that event, I assure you.
So you have to come, no matter what it takes.
If our mother get angry, tell her not to worry about the test. Tell that you realize that this isn’t what you want. But remember, don’t ever yelling at our mother. She only wants what’s best for us.
And, if I may tell you, you would pass the test. But you won’t get anywhere because you wouldn’t be accepted in the scholarship.
Sometimes things like that happened.
So what I want you to do is stop studying right now. Prepare for your farewell party, tell them that you really want to go because your teachers had asked you to do so–use grey matters in your head to make up some excuses. I don’t want to know what the excuses are, but you must go.
I repeat, YOU MUST GO.
As a hint, you should tell our father. He’ll know what to do.
But if you can’t do that, if you think that you could conceal it, it’s okay. I won’t regret it. Because had you done what I have said in this letter, maybe I wouldn’t have been here, right now. Even when actually you indeed can’t do all that, I won’t regret it, and I am not regretting it. Being here quite makes me happy, actually. I’ve met these awesome people–people that teach me how to be a good friend.
And my social skills is improving right now–it’s quite late, actually, but it’s improving. I have already made a few friends in one interesting community, the same community that told its members to reach their past self through letter. I’ve met awesome people there, too. They taught me a lot.
Don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about what you couldn’t change. Instead, worry about what you could change.
I tell you, you could change this one.
But promise me, you will try doing all things that I’ve said in this letter.
I’ll wait for you.
I think I should apologize that my letter doesn’t turned out to be like what all of you had expected. Forgive me. Lastly, thank you, to all of you, for reading this confession, for being the greatest blessing in my life.
Once again… thank you for being there.