The streets here still have your footprints in the dust

From: J.M., Delhi
From a rooftop at midnight, city lights like scattered stars

Dear Self (the one who left),

The street dogs were howling again, that pack near Chandni Chowk that knows everyone's secrets. I climbed to the terrace with a lantern and your old notebook—the one with half-finished poems about metro rides and winter fog.

2 a.m., and I'm thinking about the day I boarded that train to Mumbai, chasing "better." The vendor sold me chai in a clay cup that broke before I finished it. Fragile, like promises to myself.

I forgive you for leaving. The streets here still have your footprints in the dust. Burn this if you want, or keep it. Just come back when the fog lifts—we've got stories unfinished.

Still here,
J.M.