Letter Five: The Sky That Stayed

From Iris — sent

Dear W.,

You said once that the sky here looks like it’s thinking.

Today, I believe you.

It’s the kind of grey that holds its breath—not stormy, not still, just… considering.
I sat outside wrapped in a blanket, watching the clouds rearrange themselves.
They moved like they were practicing something. Like they were rehearsing softness.

I mailed a letter last week.
Not this one—another.
To someone I used to know before I became this quieter version of myself.

It felt like putting a stone in someone else's pocket and hoping they’d understand the weight.
I don’t know if they will.

But it wasn’t about being heard.
It was about emptying my hands.

I’ve been thinking about how many times we rewrite ourselves.
How many versions of us drift like ships that never make it home.
But maybe they don’t have to.
Maybe some selves were meant to live only briefly—like sunsets, or songs you hum once and never again.

But this self—the one who writes by candlelight, who walks barefoot to the shore at dusk, who speaks out loud to seagulls and spiders—I think she’s staying a while.

Because the sky hasn’t left.

And neither have I.

— I