I pulled some blank pages from the drawer and set them on the table, staring at their crisp emptiness like they were mocking me. Writing letters wasn't exactly my forte—in fact, I wasn't sure I'd ever written a proper one in my life. Still, the urge to say something, anything, to my family felt too strong to ignore.
Sasha had suggested I write something cheerful for the occasion (christmas), her voice laced with an optimism I couldn't quite muster. The andon lamp she'd given me as a gift sat on the desk, its soft, warm glow casting faint patterns across the paper. It wasn't much, but it offered a shred of motivation, a small anchor in my otherwise chaotic thoughts.
I tapped the pen against the edge of the table, staring at the blank page as if it might somehow write itself. Sasha's advice echoed in my mind—lighthearted, positive, something that might make them smile. But how do you conjure cheerfulness when it doesn't come naturally? Still, the lamp's glow felt like a silent encouragement, reminding me that at least someone believed I had something worthwhile to say.
With a pen in hand, I began, the words awkward and stilted from the start.
"Hello Hoffmans,
I hope you are doing fine. I am doing fine too..."
I stopped, unsettled by the sight of my own writing. The words sat on the page, flat and lifeless, lacking any real substance.
My English had always been a laughingstock, and it showed. What could anyone expect from someone who had barely scraped through school, who'd spent his formative years robbing stores and dodging trouble, wearing his defiance like a medal of honor?
I scoffed at myself, shaking my head. This was pathetic. An utter failed display of my mediocrity.
I crumpled the page and tossed it on the garbage bin, grabbing another sheet with a renewed determination.
"Dear Family,
I am delighted to know that you are doing fine..."
I paused again, staring at the words as if they might magically transform into something meaningful. But they didn't. They stayed there, as hollow and contrived as the first attempt. Another failure. Another wasted page.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. Strong enough to face down rival gangs, strong enough to take a punch and throw one back twice as hard, but too weak to put a single heartfelt thought onto paper. The irony wasn't lost on me.
I wasn't sure what stung more—the realization that I didn't know what to say, or the nagging feeling that even if I did, it wouldn't matter. What good were words from someone like me, someone who had spent so much of his life running, fighting, and hiding?
The stack of blank pages on the table seemed endless, each one taunting me with the possibility of failure. But I wasn't ready to give up—not yet. I picked up the pen again, my grip tightening as I stared at the paper. This time, I wouldn't overthink it. This time, I would just write.
I wrote, my English was a laughing spectacle. What can you expect someone who struggled passing and spent there years robbing streets and being chased out, wearing a badge of pride.
I scoffed again.
Dear Family,
I am delighted to know that you are doing fine.....
I crumpled the pages and tossed them into the rubbish bin, adding to the growing pile of failed attempts. Each ball of paper felt like a reminder of my inability to say what I truly felt, a testament to how distant I'd become.
Emotions were too hard for me to express. I resented the very idea of laying myself bare, of putting words to feelings I'd buried for so long. Vulnerability wasn't my language—it never had been. I had built my life on walls and armor, and now, when I needed to crack them open, I found I didn't know how.
For a moment, the weight of it all became unbearable. I buried my face in my hands, and before I could stop myself, I cried. Quiet, muffled tears that no one else would see, that I would never admit to. Years of silence, distance, and unresolved emotions came rushing to the surface, overwhelming me in a way I hadn't expected.
I knew I could've just emailed them. It would've been quicker, easier, and far less painful. But that wasn't the point. The truth was, I hadn't contacted them in years—not a word, not a sign of life. What right did I have to suddenly reach out? And what could I even say that would bridge the chasm I'd allowed to grow between us?
The only thing I had known was their permanent address. It was etched in my memory like a stubborn scar, a remnant of a time when I was still part of their lives. I didn't know their new routines, their preferences, or even if they'd want to hear from me. But that address—it was the only thread connecting me to them, the only certainty I had in the sea of years that had passed in silence.
The glow of Sasha's andon lamp flickered faintly in the corner of my eye, its steady warmth almost mocking in the face of my turmoil. I sighed, wiping my face, and stared at the blank page again. This wasn't about finding the perfect words. It was about saying something. Anything.
Dear hoffmans family,
I wish you are all fine because I am fine as well. [Haha]. You know how poor I had been in writing. My grades are the very evidence to it.
Young sister, Sewer rat I hope you and your baby are fine too. If you need any help regarding money, feel free. For I am wifeless and girlfriend-less. Woman are expensive like you. I hope you have grown mature and don't spend money like it grows on tree.
Older sister, Hippopotamus, I hope you are fine too. I hope you are happy with your current life with no husband. Who am I to judge when I myself am a wifeless man. Things get lonely a lot. I hope you are fine though.
Father and mother, I am sorry I had been a delinquent. But I hadn't forgotten the day when I was kicked out and disowned by you. I don't like you but I cannot hate you either.
Merry Christmas and happy new year.
Yours sincerely
Lorenzo Hoffman.
I stared at the letter for a long moment, reading and rereading the words I'd scrawled out. The sarcasm, the humor, the bitterness—it was all there, raw and unpolished, just like me. But as I read it again, something inside me twisted. This wasn't the letter I wanted to send. It wasn't the message I wanted to leave behind.
Sure, the nicknames—Sewer Rat and Hippopotamus—might've gotten a chuckle out of my sisters. Maybe. Or maybe they'd just be another reminder of how distant I'd become from the family I once knew. And that jab at my parents? It was honest, yes, but honesty wasn't always the best policy, especially when it came wrapped in resentment.
I sighed heavily, feeling the weight of my own words. Crossing my arms, I rested them on the desk and leaned forward, my forehead brushing the edge of the paper. The emotions I'd tried so hard to bury rose to the surface, but I couldn't bring myself to face them fully. Writing this letter was supposed to be cathartic, an olive branch of sorts, but instead, it felt like reopening an old wound.
With a flick of my wrist, I crumpled the page and tossed it into the dustbin, joining the growing pile of discarded attempts. I didn't even look to see where it landed. I had no intentions of sending it, no intentions of doing anything, really. The idea of reaching out had felt like a spark of hope, but now, it seemed like a fool's errand.
I sat there in the quiet, the andon lamp casting its warm glow over the desk, mocking my inability to express myself. Maybe some things were better left unsaid.