Susan Narrating – Past
Five years ago, I was standing in the middle of my new apartment. Boxes everywhere.
I had just moved because I found a little pup under a tree, soaking wet and crying like a telenovela extra. My old apartment didn’t allow pets.
I rescued him and named him Oishi. My badoodle. He’s cute, but also weird—he refuses to take off the red bandana I put on him, and don’t even get me started on his glasses. But they look good on him, so they stay.
I was happy. Hopeful. This felt like the start of good things finally unfolding.
As I unpacked, I noticed something outside. The postbox was… glowing. My heart did little cartwheels. I scooped Oishi up and whispered, “Maybe there’s a Keanu Reeves out there, like The Lake House, sending me a letter.”
I nearly tripped rushing out.
When I reached the postbox, I prayed:
“Please, God, a letter from my future husband.”
It kept glowing. We just stood there—me and my badoodle—staring at it.
Oishi Narrating – Present
Badoodle? Where are you? Come hug me.
I’m drained. My ears are bleeding from Susan’s dramatics these past weeks.
She keeps asking: “Oishi, is this life? Is this it? We wake up, work, sleep, repeat?”
We still walk in the park, sneak into cinemas, eat siopao at 2 AM, binge The Detective Agency.
But she only sees the routine.
I, Oishi, am actually content.
Then she starts telling me her dreams, like I can make them happen:
“I want to travel, Oishi. Imagine us on a desert safari in Dubai, swimming in the Maldives, watching a Phnom Penh sunset. Snow! Or a coffee shop in Paris where a handsome stranger asks, ‘Is this seat taken?’”
I bark to snap her out of her delusion… but then I notice her teary eyes, wide with longing — like a ten-year-old begging for ice cream before dinner.
I walk over and rest my face on her lap. She hugs me tight.
“I’m so glad I found you,” she whispers. “Remember that day, badoodle?”
Tears slide down her cheeks. “I’m tired, Oishi. It feels like I’m just working to live another day. I have friends, but I have longings too.”
Susan is a lot, but she keeps showing up. I admire that.
Then she stands up, grabs pen and paper.
“I’m writing a letter to my past self—to remind her not to give up.”
She still believes that glowing postbox has magic. So do I.
Susan’s Letter to Her Past Self
To my ever‑dramatic, ever‑beautiful self:
Life will happen. You’ll hurt and you’ll hurt others, even unintentionally.
You’ll stumble and fall. You’ll feel stuck even when you give your best.
You’ll be afraid. Depressed. Anxious.
Longing will hit deep.
One day you’ll say you’ve had enough.
But know this: We. Don’t. Give. Up.
When you’re down, remember your blessings: Oishi, your walks in the park, family, friends.
You can’t travel yet, but you can explore new recipes, try new things, live life while waiting for dreams to come true.
Most of all, remember:
God is with us.
With us when our minds spiral like spaghetti.
With us when pillows are soaked with tears.
With us when we laugh at midnight siopao.
Life isn’t all bad. Learn to count your blessings and work your dreams with God.
Love, Me ❤️.
Susan folds the letter. We walk outside. The postbox glows again.
She breathes—inhale, exhale, like she’s been practicing.
As she extends her arm to drop the letter, an eagle swoops down and snatches it.
We stand there, jaws dropped.
Then she scoops me up: “Badoodle, let’s go to Boyo.”
Poor Boyo. He’ll hear the whole story.
Later, as we’re about to sleep, I see her kneeling with tears in her eyes.
And I know God is listening.
She stays there quietly kneeling, her back slightly hunched as if the weight of everything is finally being offered up.
And I stay close, like I always do. No barking. No judgment. Just stillness.
The night doesn’t answer her out loud.
But the stars don’t leave.
The breeze doesn’t rush.
And somehow, in all the silence,
I feel it too
a presence bigger than pain,
a peace deeper than the questions.
She stands up slowly and wipes her eyes.
Then smiles at me, the real kind.
Like maybe she doesn’t have it all figured out
but she remembered she’s not alone.
We head back inside.
And as she locks the door, she whispers:
“Maybe tomorrow will still be messy… but I think we’re going to be okay.”
Writer’s Note 🐶📓
We’ve all longed like Susan.
We’ve all been hurt, anxious, depressed, stuck, lost.
We ask ourselves: “Is this it? Is this life?”
We chase what we don’t have, live in a future that hasn’t come, or a past that won’t return.
This is your reminder—like Susan’s letter—that no matter what happens:
We don’t give up.
We keep pressing forward.
We keep believing that Someone loves us enough to give His life for us ❤️.
Still Rising. Still Barking. 🐾
Ember - Fire and Soul 