Sinxerelyash

In a world where reality is shaped by choice, a woman struggles with the weight of her unfulfilled dreams. Torn between the life she’s living and the one she’s always imagined, she sends a letter into the unknown—hoping to reach the successful versions of herself across parallel universes. With each alternate version living a different reality, she questions if they’ve found the fulfillment she longs for.

But as the letter travels through the fabric of existence, she wonders: will it ever reach them? And if it does, will the answers provide the solace she seeks, or will they unravel the very fabric of her beliefs about success, happiness, and what it means to truly live a life worth living?

A letter to all successful versions of me

I never stopped thinking about the ice.

It's strange, isn't it? How certain memories stay with you, crystal clear, while others fade into the background. I can't remember what I ate for dinner last week, but I can still remember the way the rink smelled—a mixture of cold air and popcorn from the snack bar.

I can remember the sound of the blades cutting through the ice, the laughter of kids, and the quiet moments when it was just me, the ice, and the music.

Dear Successful Skater Version of Me,

Are you still skating? I hope you are. I hope you never let go of that feeling—that magic—of gliding across the ice.

Do you compete now? Do you stand on podiums with medals hanging around your neck?

Or maybe you don't compete. Maybe you teach instead. Maybe you're the one standing on the edge of the rink, guiding someone else as they take their first shaky steps.

I wonder what it's like to live your life. I wonder if you ever think about me—the version of you who walked away.

I still remember the day I stopped. I was 17, and it felt like the whole world was telling me to grow up.

"You're not good enough to go pro," they said. "You'll never make a career out of this. You need to focus on something practical."

So I did. I put away my skates and told myself I'd made the right choice. But sometimes, late at night, I still dream about the ice.

The Version That Didn't Keep Skating

I set the pen down and stared at the page. Writing these letters felt like opening old wounds, but it also felt… freeing.

For the first time in years, I let myself imagine what my life could've been like if I'd ignored all the people who told me to quit.

I pictured myself in another world, standing on the ice, the spotlight shining down as music played through the arena.

The crowd was cheering, but I barely noticed. My focus was on the routine—the jumps, the spins, the footwork. Every movement was an expression, every step a story.

And when I finished, when the music faded and the applause roared in my ears, I felt a rush of pride and joy that no words could describe.

In another version of my life, this was my reality.

But it didn't have to be the Olympics.

I imagined a smaller rink, a group of kids laughing as I helped them learn their first moves. I imagined the satisfaction of seeing them improve, of knowing I'd made a difference.

And I imagined skating just for myself—waking up early on a quiet morning, lacing up my skates, and stepping onto the ice before anyone else.

I closed my eyes and let the images fade.

The skater version of me felt so far away, like a dream I'd left behind. But the more I thought about her, the more I realized she wasn't perfect either.

She'd worked hard to get where she was. She'd fallen a thousand times and gotten back up every single one. She'd faced criticism and doubt, not just from others but from herself.

That was the difference between us. She hadn't let fear or doubt stop her.

Maybe I wasn't too late. Maybe I couldn't go back to being 14 and learning my first routine, but that didn't mean I couldn't step onto the ice again.

For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of hope.

I picked up the pen and wrote one more line.

Maybe one day, I'll meet you on the ice.

The Skater