Pick one. Cornelius will lay down the opener; the rest is yours.
Letters to the ones who didn’t get the letter. Usually because they’re gone.
“I’ve been rehearsing this for a long time. Of all the things I never said, the one that won’t leave is…”
“We didn’t fight. That’s almost the worst part. You slowly stopped and I slowly stopped and now I don’t know how to call you.…”
The email you cannot send because it would end the career.
“I’m not writing to give two weeks. I’m writing to tell you why.…”
“Regarding your memo: I have read it four times. Each read removed a year from my life.…”
“Before I go: I like you all individually. It’s the combined draft of us that I can’t be in anymore.…”
Giving up a thing without asking for permission.
“I’ve been apologizing to you since I was old enough to know the word. I’m still trying to figure out what I did.…”
“I’m not coming back. I keep telling you that and I keep coming back. This one is different because…”
Not to them, exactly. More to the part of you that hasn’t yet.
“This isn’t forgiveness. This is the letter I have to write before forgiveness is possible. Here is what you did.…”
“You thought you were protecting yourself. I want to tell you something I wish someone had told you then.…”
To a past or future version of yourself. The postman isn’t picky.
“One year from today, if you’re still at the same job, still with the same person, still making the same excuses about the same thing —…”
“Old person. I hope you exist. I hope you can read this without flinching. Here is the thing I’m deciding right now, and I need to know if you think I got it right.…”
“You haven’t made it yet. You’re going to make it in about six months. I’m not going to tell you not to — it turns out the mistake is the one that…”
Or don’t pick one. Cornelius accepts walk-ins.
Start from a blank page