Writing this is a little scary for me because I grew up with the idea that you should be strong and never let anyone see you cry or feel down. Because of that, being transparent and honest sometimes clashes with the way my brain has been wired.

Still, I want to share myself—the real me that has been living inside my mind, body, and soul 24/7 for the past few months.

It’s safe to say that my mental health is what has been impacting me the most. I think I mentioned before that I started going to therapy at the end of last year because I was having anxiety attacks—and probably panic attacks too. At first, I thought work was the main reason, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. Once I started therapy, scars and wounds from different moments in my life began to surface. I realized that work was only the trigger, not the real cause.

Since then, I’ve had ups and downs. It would be a lie to say that I’m okay all the time, because I’m not. I’m learning how to deal with it and how to cope, and it’s not easy by any means—especially for someone who has always tried to present a very specific version of herself to others.

Lately, I’ve been in what I like to call my wellness era. I actually declared this my wellness year. I’ve been slowly creating routines that feel sustainable and manageable for me—from brushing my teeth consistently, to building a skincare routine, taking vitamins, and meditating for at least five minutes a day. I’m also slowly adding workouts and yoga, but at a pace that feels gentle and natural, so it doesn’t feel imposed or like an obligation.

I’ve been trying to show myself more empathy. Making small agreements with myself. Trying to find balance.

Balance has always been something I struggle with. I tend to live in extremes—all or nothing, black or white, rarely the in-between. It’s funny because I always thought of myself as someone who existed in the middle, in the gray areas, but I’ve realized that only happens in very specific situations. Most of the time, I’m very much all-or-nothing, and honestly, that’s exhausting.

For example, if I didn’t work out five days a week for at least an hour, I would mentally punish myself and this awful inner monologue would begin—until eventually I would just quit altogether. The same happened with writing. If I didn’t write every single day, like everyone says you should, then in my mind I must not be a real writer — so I would stop completely.

So balance is something I’m actively working on now, through therapy and through small daily practices.

At the same time, I’m in a moment of rediscovering myself—especially as a woman in a world largely built for men. I’m trying to understand what that means for me and how to accept myself as I am. I’m learning about my gender, my history, and my roots.

And above all, I’m trying to be proud of myself.

That last part has been difficult. There’s more to that story, but I’m not ready to share it yet. Slowly, though, I’m learning how to show myself to the world.

Another thing that has been affecting me is the state of the world. It hurts to see so many things happening and sometimes feel unable to voice my opinions for various reasons. That has been hard too.

If I had to summarize all of this, I’d say that I’m working on myself—something we should always be doing, not only when something big breaks us. I’m learning balance. I’m looking for tools that help me with that. I’m creating plans that are flexible but still give me structure. I’m educating myself on things that matter. And I’m slowly learning to accept the real me without feeling ashamed.

Of course, all of this has impacted my writing. That’s part of why I’ve been quieter here. But I’m slowly returning to it with more confidence. I’ve started planning again so I can be more consistent with what I publish here, and I’m also drafting my first novel.

Recently, I discovered the 12-Week Year methodology, and it has been incredibly helpful for me. If you’re curious, I encourage you to look into it and see if it might work for you as well.

Through all of this, there has also been goodness. I’ve been finding things that bring me joy—hobbies and little moments that feel meaningful. My support system has been there for me every step of the way, especially my husband, whom I’m endlessly grateful for, and my Maya, who somehow always knows exactly how I’m feeling.

I don’t think I would have written about this if I hadn’t been inspired this week by Sarah J. Maas speaking openly about mental health, writing, and womanhood in her interview on the Call Her Daddy podcast, and by one of Isabel Allende’s books, My Name Is Emilia del Valle.

If you read this, thank you.

And if you’re going through something similar, please remember that you’re not alone. I’m here if you ever want to talk.

Melina.

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Shirley Jackson is my favorite horror author, so it’s no surprise that my writing is influenced by her style. This flash fiction piece explores how something entirely ordinary can slowly transform into crystal-clear paranoia. Psychological horror is one of my favorite genres, and I hope you enjoy this story.

I included a voice-over as well, for those who prefer to listen, or enjoy reading and listening at the same time.

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Voice-over version:

32nd Street.

Amanda was sitting at one of the restaurant’s outdoor tables, just around the block from her apartment. She sipped her coffee, inhaling its bitter, roasted aroma, without a care in the world, completely unaware of her surroundings.

That is, until she called her waitress for the check and noticed the way the girl looked at her—as if annoyed by her request. Amanda sighed and tried to ignore the eye roll. She was in a hurry and didn’t have time to wonder if the waitress had a bad morning.

The night before, she had agreed to go to her sister’s place early to help organize everything for the family reunion they were hosting later that day. A reunion she wasn’t particularly excited about.

When the check finally arrived, Amanda asked for the terminal to pay with her card. The waitress rolled her eyes again. That small act of defiance didn’t go unnoticed. Amanda decided she wouldn’t leave a tip. The girl was rude.

I could leave a bad review online, she thought, but quickly dismissed the idea. She loved the place—it was her favorite cafe in the neighborhood.

“Tip?” The waitress asked flatly.

“No,” Amanda replied, a slight smirk on her face.

The waitress clenched her jaw, rolled her eyes once more, and walked away.

Amanda gathered her things and headed towards her sister’s house. At the corner, she hesitated, debating whether to take a taxi or the subway. She didn’t notice the waitress approach until the girl suddenly shouted, “TAXI!”

Amanda jumped.

With the taxi door already opened, the waitress leaned in and said, “32nd street, gray building.” She smiled, wide and toothy, and laughed loudly.

That was her sister’s address.

Amanda frowned, brushing it off. A coincidence. What were the odds that an annoying cafe waitress would be heading to the same family gathering?

Her phone buzzed.

Regina: You’re late. Hurry. I need all hands on deck.

All hands on deck… how many hands is that, exactly? Amanda thought.

She shook her head, waved down a taxi, and got in. She was being paranoid. The ride would help her calm down.

“Busy day?” The driver asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

“Mhm.”

Amanda stared out the window. The city blurred past, matching the fog in her mind. When she looked back at the driver, he was smirking—mischievously.

Just like the waitress.

Her stomach dropped.

She hadn’t told him where she was going. And he hadn’t asked.

Her pulse spiked. What are the odds? The thought repeated itself, louder this time. She reached for the door handle.

Click.

Locked.

“32nd street, gray building,” the driver said calmly.

Her phone lit up again.

Regina: suck it up and hurry.

“What—“ Amanda whispered.

“Almost there,” he added.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. For a moment, she froze, convinced this was it—that every unpleasant stranger she’d encountered had decided, together, that today was her last.

Then survival kicked in.

She grabbed the handle with both hands, yanking and screaming.

“Let me out! Let me out! LET ME OUT!”

The taxi screeched to a stop. The lock clicked open.

“32nd street, gray building,” the driver repeated.

Amanda threw herself out of the car, collapsing onto the pavement, her body shaking violently. She barely registered the driver’s laughter as he sped away—laughter that sounded exactly like the waitress.

With trembling hands, she looked up. The building loomed over her.

The nightmare would end once she was inside. Once she was safe.

She rang the doorbell.

Her sister opened the door almost immediately.

“What the hell happened to you?” Regina asked. “You look like shit.”

Amanda didn’t answer. She stumbled inside and collapsed onto the sofa, trying to steady her breathing.

“Amanda? What happened?” No response. Regina sighed. “Stay here. I’ll get you some water.”

But her sister didn’t go to the kitchen. Instead, she locked the front door. Then, from the hallway, Regina said softly, “She’s finally here.”

The last thing Amanda heard was several cruel laughs.

If you want to read other letters and midnight tales, these could be the ones:

Thinking about writing this closing letter has been especially scary for me because last year was hard, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it was also a year when I was fucking brave.

My most-played song was “I did something bad” by Taylor Swift, and it is funny because I feel as if I did a ton of “bad” things that led to good ones. Although what’s good and bad, really? I’m more inclined to think about the gray in-between. I think that’s where I live the most.

This was a trial year for me.

I was in a new position at work, and it made me travel more than I thought possible. It made me stronger, helped me realize I can do a lot on my own, and made me appreciate it more.

I got to be an aunt for the first time in my life and learned more about babies than I ever anticipated. And when we took care of my nephew, I knew, once again, that my husband and I are a fantastic team.

My creativity screamed so loudly that I had no choice but to give in and listen, discovering all I could do. And that’s how some projects, including this space, were born.

There was also a lot of reconnecting with family members and some old friends. It’s always nice to discover there are a lot of people who can be part of one’s life if chosen.

I made new friends, too, by being brave and taking chances, even if it was through a screen.

This was a year when I believed in myself, even when in doubt, I did. But not alone, there was always someone there to cheer me up all the way, from my husband to my mom, to new and old friends.

All this I’ve mentioned so far is good, I know. Which means it’s time to enter the dark parts of the year: me crying for help, almost in agony, but hiding it from everyone at all costs, because I was ashamed of it.

How, if I were given good opportunities, could I be so ungrateful? If people saw strength in me, how could I be so weak? And, if I was doing what everyone was expecting from me, why wasn’t it enough?

Every time I tried to say the work trips were draining me, the automatic response was, “You should be grateful for those experiences.” Then, how could I say that every trip took a little from my soul?

When I said I was tired from work and the never-ending changes, “there are tons of people who would beg for your job.” So, how could I say it was draining all my energy until I felt flat?

When I said I couldn’t continue teaching yoga because it wasn’t working with my overall schedule, “that was never worthy work.” If it wasn’t, why did it give me so much joy even in the hardest days?

And, of course, if I didn’t have the energy to work out and I didn’t look “good” or as expected, I was “being lazy and should push myself harder.”

All this to say that it took months before I faced the truth.

It wasn’t after the panic and anxiety attacks, when nothing from what usually works to calm me down, such as doing yoga, exercise, writing, or reading, when I felt so hollow and hopeless, at the brink of pulling a Britney by shaving my head, that I accepted the truth: I needed help, I couldn’t do it alone, and my closest persons were not professionals who could help me the way I needed.

So, after an anxiety attack, crying and sobbing on the sofa, I unlocked my iPad and started searching for a Psychologist.

That was one of the best decisions I made all year. Even after the first session, I knew that was what I needed. And I saw the first rays of the rainbow after the storm.

If I had the option to go back in time and change things, I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t change a thing because then the growth, humility, strength, and self-love that I gained would’ve been lost.

Life is made of choices, and those start with the ones we make for ourselves, which is why we have to be careful with every yes, no, or maybe that we say.

I regret nothing, and I value everything.

Thank you, 2025, you broke me and made me stronger, a not-so-easy combination. I look forward to remembering you through the years as one who helped me grow.

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This story came to me unexpectedly while I was waiting at a red light on a rainy afternoon. I looked out the window and saw an abandoned building—once a party hall many years ago—and something about its silence and decay ignited a spark.

By the time the light turned green, half the story was already living in my Notes app. I finished it once I got home, and after three revisions, this is the version I’m sharing with you today.

I included a voice-over as well, for those who prefer to listen, or enjoy reading and listening at the same time.

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Content Warning:

This story contains themes of violence, family abuse, fire, death, and self-harm.

Voice-over version:

Ghosts Don’t Forgive, Mary Anne.

I can see you from the broken window in the abandoned place. Drops of water fall all over you, making you wet and cold—just like me.

Your face could be carved out of stone—rigid, frozen, hard. And yet the sorrow leaks through, no matter how tightly you try to hold yourself together.
And that, Mary Anne, is the least you could feel. But I wonder, did you ever feel guilty? Remorse? Even betrayal? Anything at all that could feed the hatred burning inside my fragile little body?

You see, Mary Anne, I remember *everything.* Do you want me to remind you? I can whisper in your ear if that would please you more.

It was a Thursday night, and not just any night, but Thanksgiving night. We made sure our parents would spend the holiday together so we could leave the house under the premise of celebrating our treasured friendship—the most beautiful thing we had. Especially since we all practically grew up together.

Do you ever think of how many of us were there that fearful night? There was Charlie, of course. Being the oldest, he was supposed to be in charge. Then you, Mary Anne, his secret lover—right until I found out… But we’re getting ahead of ourselves; let’s save that for later. Luisa and Antonio were there, and to complete the pairing, Joe and I.

We headed to our secret place. The abandoned old house we found when we rode our bikes on a hot Sunday evening. None of us had ever seen it before, and we were all mesmerized by its strange beauty. We decided it was a promise, a sign from the Universe to be teenagers and break the rules by creating our own place.

And that night, Luisa and Antonio caught up to us before Joe and I closed the door. We gathered in the center of the old room we had been slowly remodeling; even though it was an old house, that didn’t mean we couldn’t have everything we ever needed or wanted.

Charlie sat on his usual old, faded sofa, arms sprawled across the headboard.
“For a moment there, I thought you weren’t coming, guys,” he said.

Antonio was still regulating his breathing after running the whole block to meet us, so his voice came out haggard when he replied jokingly, “Then who would have brought the beverages of your preference, oh almighty Charlie?”
They were best friends and the closest in age.

“Oh, hush!” you chastised, dismissing their conversation with the flick of your hand. Luisa sat next to you, as usual, trying to claim all your attention for herself, but you didn’t budge.

Joe sat on the frayed ottoman next to me on the floor, laughing at something you all said—something I didn’t hear, because I was focused solely on you, Mary Anne.

I remember you being nervous that day, before everyone arrived at our parents’ house, changing your clothes more than necessary, rearranging yourself.
“What is going on?” I asked, alert and worried, thinking our plans had been discovered and you didn’t want to preoccupy me.
“Nothing, Diana.” You forced a smile, but your bottom lip quivered, and that was all I needed to know something else was going on. “Please finish getting ready. We will take our leave once dinner is done.” And with that, you dismissed me.
And I? I got a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Mary Anne—when everything started.

There we were, all six of us, looking at each other with amusement, hiding secrets in our eyes, and laughing our hearts out.
I looked at you once more, trying to find any sign that something was troubling you, but ended up mesmerized by how beautiful and carefree you were—all smiles and jokes, sitting across from Charlie, giving him most of your attention.
I smiled, even though the nagging feeling didn’t leave me.

“So, Diana, how does it feel to be hanging out with the cool kids?” I looked at Antonio, removing my gaze from you.
“Antonio, don’t be a prick,” Joe answered for me.
“I’ve always hung out with you all.”
He clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“No, no. Never like this.” He looked around the room, and a wicked smile contorted his features. “Tonight, we will finally let you in.”

“Don’t scare her!” you said. “Ignore him, Diana, he’s just being funny and childish.”
I smiled and nodded, believing you and trying to let go.
How naive I was, Mary Anne, to believe you and not see the signs.

After that, it seemed Antonio was true to his word. A new version of all of you appeared, and at first, I was stunned. How could I have missed this? You were all so free.
The music blasted around us, moving our bodies to its notes and rhythms. Alcohol invaded our systems, clouding our minds, making our eyes hazy, and our breathing hard. Reason abandoned us, and the primitive thing under our skin came out to play.

I had my first kiss that day, Mary Anne. Did you know? It was Joe.
“Of course,” you would’ve said if I had the opportunity to tell you—but you didn’t care.
Do you care now, Mary Anne?
Let’s suppose you do, because if that’s true, I can tell you now.

A slow song started playing. Everything around me was blurry, so I closed my eyes and let my other senses loose.
“Can I have this dance?” he asked, his lips brushing my ear, and I shivered. My heart started beating faster than I ever thought possible—but I was proven wrong later, right?
I’m sorry, Mary Anne, I don’t want to spoil a very good story; I’ll continue.

I nodded, and he put his hands on my waist, lightly and carefully, as if he could break me. He turned me around, and I laughed harder than I ever had. I blinked slowly, and his face appeared before me—handsome, boyish features giving way to something more mature.
In that moment, when I saw how attractive he was, I asked myself how he could ever be interested in me.

“You are so beautiful, Diana.” He whispered, mostly to my lips, because that was where his gaze was fixed.
I laughed nervously.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Joe.” I paused and added softly, “Don’t lie.”
“I would never.” He pulled me closer, our chests touching, breath mingling. My hands slid from his neck to his nape, drawing him toward me.
“Joe—” I whispered, but his lips silenced me.

The butterflies in my stomach raced each other, Mary Anne. That moment was pure happiness.

Until you ruined it.

As my senses recovered from the encounter, I looked around trying to find you. I wanted to tell you so badly, but no one was around us.
“Where is everyone?” I asked, still close to him but turning away.
“I don’t know. They were all here…” He moved to the window. “Antonio and Luisa are smoking outside, but I don’t see Charlie or Mary Anne.”

The butterflies vanished, and the nagging feeling crept back in—tearing apart my internal organs with its teeth.
He saw it on my face; he knew me so well, Mary Anne. Oh, what a beautiful couple we could have been.
“I’ll ask them, maybe they went out to buy something. Wait here, and don’t wander; the other rooms aren’t lit like this one.”
I nodded. He gave me a light kiss, a slight brush of his lips, and left.

I stood in the center of the living room, which was barely lit, and with no one around, I started paying attention to the humid smell, the greenish mold on the walls, and the stabbed coldness.

I tried to wait for him. I really did. But I was worried sick for you, because I knew something was wrong earlier.
So I took the first step.

After a while, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I could see the shadows in the rooms.
And then I heard it—you were screaming. At first, I thought you were moaning, but the closer I got, the more certain I became that you were screaming in pain.

I rushed forward. The door was slightly ajar, so I peered inside and saw a scene I will never erase from my mind.

It was you and Charlie. I assumed you were having sex; the act itself didn’t scandalize me. No, I wasn’t a prude.
What made me sick, Mary Anne, were two things:

First, he was hurting you—there were marks on your body, and you were pleading for him to stop, trying to get away.
And second, he was our cousin, Mary Anne. Not a distant cousin—a direct one.

What were you thinking?

“Stop!” I screamed, bursting into the room and pushing Charlie away from you. Adrenaline was pumping through my body.

There are things I will never erase from my mind, Mary Anne, and it all started in that moment.
Your eyes went wide, scandalized, and you tried to cover yourself with the faded sheets. Charlie, naked and agitated, didn’t care. He turned to look at me, and that face… I had never seen it on him before.

“Leave, Diana! LEAVE!” you screamed. But it was too late, and you knew it.

Charlie didn’t speak. He walked toward me and grabbed my neck. His hand clamped around it, cutting off the air entering my body.
I tried to scream—nothing.
I tried to hit him—useless.
He was bigger, stronger.

You were behind him, covered in the sheet, hitting him, trying to pry his hand off me.
“Charlie, please stop! She is my little sister!”
“Shut up, Mary Anne.” He gritted his teeth.
“Charlie—”
He squeezed harder, and all reason left me. My eyes went bloodshot, my mouth formed an “o,” my arms hung loose at my sides. My body turned to jelly.

I thought I died right there, Mary Anne. Turns out I didn’t—I believe I fainted. I wasn’t fully conscious, but my mind stayed floating between darkness and the living world, clinging to your voices.

“What have you done?!” you screamed.
“What was necessary.” His voice was cruel, rough—nothing like my cousin’s.
“Charlie—”
“It had to be done, Mary Anne. You always knew the family expected something from us. Don’t ‘Charlie’ me. Now we get our reward.”
“Not like this—”
“Do you want to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Then this is what it is. We’ll receive what we’re due, and we’ll leave. No one will know.” He paused. “Now get dressed and get out. I’ll start the fire. The others must be out by now.”

You sobbed uncontrollably, Mary Anne. I wasn’t sure I was hearing correctly.
Why did this have to be done? What was due to you? And how could you do this to me?

You left quickly. Charlie stayed longer, hitting me repeatedly on the cheek until I fully woke, gasping for air. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus—his cruel smile was the first thing I saw. And his eyes—almost as dark as the night. Then he covered his mouth and nose, and that was when I realized everything was burning. The smoke choked me. But I was frozen, terrified of the man in front of me—someone I had known my whole life, now completely different.

“It’s nothing personal, little cousin. We just needed someone, and you happened to be there.” He sighed. “Rest in peace, knowing I’ll take good care of your sister.”
He walked to the door.
“Oh! I almost forgot—you weren’t the only one fooled. Joe was too. Poor lad didn’t know, but he’ll recover.”
He crossed the threshold.
“Have fun in hell for us!”
His laughter stayed in the room with me; not even the fire could engulf it, as it did my screams.

In the distance, I barely heard Joe screaming my name. I think tears rolled down my face, but, being burned, it was probably just a trick of the mind.

After what felt like forever in extreme pain and agony, I felt numb. The pain was gone, and all that was left was the cold, the type that pierces your bones and makes you wish you had more layers to keep warm.
But the funny thing, Mary Anne, is that I could never get warm again.

I was left there, became one with darkness and the ashes—until it happened again.

So you see, Mary Anne, telling you the real story is no kindness. On the contrary—I intend to open the wound and leave raw skin, revealing all the secrets you never knew.

And don’t act surprised. Charlie wasn’t the only one hiding things from you.
Our parents didn’t want to cause distress—that’s why they never told you I was burned alive.
And our dear friends? Turns out my drink had something in it, just enough to make me queasy and easier for Charlie to knock out.
And him being savage with you? I want to tell you it was staged. But he enjoyed it. He is a wicked, evil man who likes to hurt women; you know that now. You and I were not the first ones, nor the last.

Now tell me, Mary Anne, what riches did my death bring you? What pleasures? How about happiness, sister?
I see you now, entering my new home—the one you and your dark lover gifted me, where I’ve been trapped for years.
You look so sick, Mary Anne. Nothing like the sister who once filled me with happiness and joy.

I can’t tell you what I feel when you walk to the place where I died. I suppose it should be a thrilling emotion, but I am a ghost now; I’m not sure I can feel anything.
Or perhaps I am simply numb, full of sadness and hatred, with no room for anything else.

Your face crumbles, and so do you—falling to the floor. Tears spill as if a tap has been opened.
“I am so, so sorry, Diana,” you say between sobs. “I had no idea…”
The sobs grow louder, faster. You gasp for air.

I focus on your face, Mary Anne, like I used to.
And that’s why I don’t see the razor in your hand until you cut your wrists.

Later, you whisper, “Let’s be together now,” and I think you finally see me, because your eyes widen.
But you had it wrong, Mary Anne.
What I needed to be free was to tell my story—the real story.
Not to anyone.
To you.

“Thank you,” I say to your kindness, and leave you alone in that place where they will find another female body—one that will not be the last.

If you want to read other letters and midnight tales, these could be the ones:

October was a refreshing month. It had its share of issues—don’t they all?—but overall, it felt like a gentle reset. A time to discover and rediscover parts of myself and the people I love.

The month started strong. I took a couple of days off from my 9-to-5 because I was close to burning out, and my husband surprised me by joining me at Taylor Swift’s Release Party at the movie theater. That, I must say, was one of the most unexpected and loving things Alex could’ve done—it reminded me just how deeply loved I am by him. And I love him for that. (Also, I got my first-ever friendship bracelet!)

Then… drums, please —the first baby turtle appeared!

I know I haven’t shared much about the turtles in our home, and this is the perfect letter to do so. We have Donatello, a male turtle who has been in my family forever—he’s over 50 years old. He came to live with us a few years ago. Later, my husband thought he might be lonely and went on a female-turtle hunt until he found Isabella. She’s about ten years old and has been with us for a full year now.

When Isabella arrived, a few of her “kids” came along. And, well… in a very Jaime and Cersei Lannister kind of way, one of them apparently mated with her, and—surprise!—this month, Emma appeared.

We had no idea what to do with a baby turtle. I don’t think I’d ever seen one before, so the research began, and we built a little enclosure for her. Until—

Two more turtles appeared! My heart couldn’t take it. What were we supposed to do with so many tiny turtles? But hey, Victoria and Jovanna are now living happily with Emma, discovering this roller coaster called life.

It’s wonderful to witness new life—watching them grow, explore, and face the world so fearlessly despite their size.

Inspired by these new beginnings, I wrote my first gothic horror short story. I haven’t shared it yet; I’m saving it for a special occasion because it’s good. Let’s just say my favorite kind of night creature makes an appearance.

It’s been amazing to rediscover myself—to embrace how much I’ve always loved gothic, horror, and dark academia themes. But as I mentioned in my last Wild Letter, “Society has long taught us that certain fascinations are wrong.” Because of that, we tend to hide those sides of ourselves. I stopped nurturing that part of me once, and I shouldn’t have. But life is circular—a ride of learning and rebirth.

So I decided to enroll in Kathy Fish’s 3-in-90-Minute Flash Fiction Workshop and discovered so much about myself as a writer in just an hour and a half. I revisited a piece I’d written in honor of my grandfather. I miss him every day, but this month, the ache was stronger.

For my writing, October was about discovering my style, my voice, and the genres that call to me—researching, studying, writing, and feeding that creative fire. And oh, what a strong fire it is.

This month also marked my sister’s birthday. I got to celebrate with her, our family, and friends—laughing, catching up, and enjoying real quality time. Those moments are rare gems we should never take for granted.

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Then came a brief descent into chaos—I got terrible food poisoning and felt like I might disintegrate into oblivion. To cheer me up, my husband surprised me with a Harry Potter-themed candle-making course. It was magical, fun, and so beautifully detailed. We even sculpted the Sorting Hat in pottery! Alex was so focused, working with his hands—he was sexy as hell, I won’t lie.

Toward the end of the month, we went to a norteño concert, and in the middle of the music, I had a creative revelation. There I was, typing frantically into my Notes app so I wouldn’t forget. That’s been the energy of October—creativity on high. I officially mapped out the Midnight Letters Universe, which will slowly come to life. I’m beyond excited. I hope this creative flame never goes out.

If I had to summarize October, I’d say: even though it’s gone, the feelings remain.

I still feel the warmth of time spent with my husband and loved ones, the thrill of creating, and the ache of missing my grandpa. I see him in every butterfly that pauses near me, in every sip of beer, in the pages of every book.

Things fade: a photograph, a letter, a sweater, a kiss, a caress.
But not feelings.
Those stay.

They transform, they evolve, but they remain—etched into us. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have scars to remind us of how we learned.

Thank you, October.
See you next year.

Tell me — how was your October?
If you could describe it in one word, which would it be?

With love,
Melina.

If you enjoy this letter, here are others that you could like:

This story was written as part of The Freaky Flash Workshop, hosted by and led by . It was created during the sprint focused on sound. I wanted to explore how a simple hum could shift from comfort to horror — from something human to something more.

The Humming.

You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. Of all the days, it had to be today.

“I promise it’ll be a quick stop,” Anya said. “We can’t show up empty-handed again.”

My boss’s wife had definitely made an impression on mine. Now, for every company event, we had to bring something—anything—to avoid her comments.

She parked in front of her grandmother’s house. The place had been vacant for months, and I’d done my best to avoid it. It creeped me out when she was alive—much more now that she was gone.

Even with a streetlight outside, the house looked darker than the rest. Cracked windows. Overgrown lawn. Peeling paint. The air felt heavy, as if the place were holding its breath.

Inside, the smell of dust and age hit me. Goosebumps rose along my arms as the floorboards complained under every step—a tired chorus that never stopped.

“I’ll be right back, wait here,” Anya said, running upstairs.

I paced the living room, checking my watch and counting the seconds.

On a small table, I found a photo of Anya and her grandmother, arms wrapped around each other, smiling at the camera. Their faces were so alike—the same eyes, the same tilt of the mouth. I touched the glass with my index finger—and something shifted in the room. From the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow, quick and wrong, twisted.

I turned—nothing.

Then, from somewhere deep in the house, came a faint humming.
Not music. Not a tune. Just a thin, uneven sound, like breath trapped in a throat that couldn’t remember how to speak.

I looked toward the hallway, and there was nothing but darkness.
The humming again—closer now. Louder, trembling, as if whoever made it fought to keep it steady.

“Love, is that you?” I left the picture and moved toward the kitchen, telling myself it was Anya’s idea of a joke. She knew how much her grandmother’s humming haunted me.

The old woman lost her voice long before she died. The hum had been her language—codes and rhythms no one else understood. It always grew louder when I was around.
She knew how I felt, and I knew how she felt about me. I wasn’t the man she wanted for her granddaughter. I was the woman who ruined her idea of love and corrupted her family.

A floorboard cracked behind me.

“Anya, stop playing. We have to go.” I turned, and no one was there. The door halfway down the hall stood open. My breath hitched.

A strangled hum pulsed from within—rising, breaking, rising again.
Rise. Break. Rise.
It dragged at the air, as if the house itself breathed through that noise.
I took tentative steps towards the sound, still thinking it was my wife playing with my head.

A gurgled tone followed, half growl, half throat-clear.
The door was slightly ajar, a faint light leaking through the gap—like a candle whispering through wood.
I pushed it open.

A single candle burned beside an urn on a drawer.

“Very funny,” I said. “Come out now.” The annoyance in my voice cracked on the last word.
I looked behind the curtains, under the table—expecting her. When my back faced the drawer, the hair on my neck rose.
The sound was right behind me.

It swelled, folding in on itself until it filled the whole room—

And then—silence.

A silence so sharp it rang inside my head, humming without sound, louder than the noise itself. The kind of silence that makes your heartbeat sound wrong.

I froze in place. I knew that sound; it was the one she always made when she first saw me.

It wasn’t a hum anymore—it was a strangled cry, a scream caught in its own throat, desperate to escape but choking itself instead. It turned metallic, vibrating inside my skull, pressing against my eardrums—as if it wanted to burst them open to bleed its way out.
A sound made only for me. Ugly, deliberate, carved from her disdain.

My heart raced.
I shut my eyes, palms covering my ears. Cold fingers wrapped around my wrists, prying.

Now it was me humming, trying to drown her out. The hands pulled harder. I held on with all my strength.

Somewhere, someone screamed my name—but I couldn’t care less. All I wanted was for her to stop.

When she did, I opened my eyes, ready to run.
But I couldn’t.

She was there.
White hair. Gray skin. Black eyes. Teeth too bright. A smile too wide for her face.

I tried to scream, but my voice was hers.
She smiled wider.
I tried to move, but my feet had become part of the floor.

And then—

A shadow moved behind her.
Anya.

For a second, they looked the same—same eyes, same mouth, the same cruel tilt of the smile. As if blood had remembered its pattern and copied itself wrong.

The old woman lifted a finger to her lips—shushing me.
The same way I once shushed her, when she was alive.
Anya’s mouth did the same.

Silence returned.

And then everything went black.

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If you want to read other letters and midnight tales, these could be the ones:

Abjection is what disturbs identity, system, order. It is what does not respect borders, positions, rules. It is death infecting life.
—Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror (1982).

The month of September brings a start and end to more than just a season in the year. As leaves change color and fall, the sun sets earlier, and the moon shines brighter, shadows emerge, attempting to serve as messengers of death. “It’s coming,” they whisper, subtle and gentle, but with firm determination.

In this season of death, where light fades and darkness reigns, something calls to us. This mystery, this alluring voice, awakens something deep inside. Even though it is a time of decay, renewal refuses to leave the stage. Creativity begins to stir, fragile but unstoppable, like a candle that burns brighter the longer the night stretches.

It took me years to understand why this time of the year, the so-called spooky season, is when I feel most alive. I’ve always been drawn to what others might call macabre, unusual, or strange—the not-so-appealing corners of existence. Yet for me, this season feels like an awakening: a moment when I am more connected to my inner fire, to the land beneath my feet, and to the quiet voices of my ancestors whispering through the wind.

It might sound odd, but I believe each of us is built differently, and that’s why we react to each season in our own way. Some crave the warmth of summer, others the stillness of winter. For me, it’s the in-between, the slow descent into darkness, that feels like home.

Perhaps it’s because this time of year seems to give us permission to be. To live, to let go of repression, and to indulge in those guilty or hidden pleasures that the rest of the year we try to hide. Society has long taught us that certain fascinations are wrong, that darkness equals danger, that to love the night is to be morbid or strange. Those labeled as “gothic,” “emo,” or “dark” have often been treated as outcasts, as if their appreciation for death, mystery, or melancholy made them less human—when in truth it might make them more so.

And yet, every autumn, everything changes. Suddenly, the world collectively falls in love with the very things it tends to reject. Pumpkins appear on every porch, horror movies dominate streaming lists, skeletons, ghosts, and witches become decoration instead of taboo. Everyone embraces the eerie, the haunted, the dark.

So what happens then? Is it fake? Are we just pretending to love the spooky season because it’s trendy, or does it reveal something truer—something that hides within us all year long?

I think it’s the latter. Because for a brief moment, the veil lifts. The collective permission to be “weird” becomes liberating. No one judges if you’re obsessed with death, magic, or the supernatural, because everyone else seems to be too. In this liminal space between summer and winter, society loosens its grip on what’s considered “normal.” The masks fall, even as we put new ones on.

Maybe that’s why so many of us feel drawn to this season, not out of falseness, but relief. Relief in shedding the constant performance of being “acceptable.” Relief in finally letting the shadows breathe. What terrifies us also attracts us; what repels us quietly calls to us.

It’s no coincidence that artists, writers, and dreamers find their spark here. Death, darkness, and silence create the perfect soil for creation. When the world quiets, imagination stirs. When we allow ourselves to look at what’s forbidden, we remember parts of ourselves we’ve been told to bury.

Then creativity awakens because of the stillness, the quiet of the world, and the lullaby it sings. This is when I create the most, when ideas find me and start making sense, when I feel more alive and full of energy, even while wrapped in my personal cocoon, recharging.

Death invokes life; there must be equilibrium. Opposing forces attract each other, feeding what the other lacks. If not for this balance, then why did I create this space and begin writing again? If not for this rhythm between endings and beginnings, why am I already working on secret (for now) projects that breathe life?

This is the season for me, and for many others, though not for everyone. The ideas I craft here will come to life with the first breath of spring. Do you see the irony? Or perhaps the accuracy? Life giving life: it begins in spring, matures in summer, finds its path in autumn, and is renewed in winter.

This is why I carefully chose the opening and closing quotes for this wild letter. Beyond remembering and celebrating others’ beautiful work, it’s because we need to remember that life and death are always connected. There’s a thread between them, even if we don’t see it at first glance—like the roots of a tree quietly binding everything beneath the surface.

If there’s one thing to take from this reflection, it’s to be real and true to oneself. To accept our most inner desires as something sacred and worth pursuing, because through them we create, we transform, we live again.

Let’s be free, and stop labeling ourselves.
Because this is the season of death,
and with it, the tags fade away.

Creativity offers a symbolic form of immortality: leaving traces that defy time and death.
—Wisman, Heflick & Goldenberg, Journal of Creative Behavior (2016).

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Now tell me, what does this season mean to you?

With love,
Melina.

If you want to read other letters and midnight tales, these could be the ones:

Midnight Letters

What remains

I’ve mentioned before that I’m taking some workshops and classes to improve my writing…

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8 months ago · 3 likes · Melina Chapa

Midnight Letters

When September ends, I begin again.

When I first pictured the month that just flew by, I tried to come up with an alliteration like “slow September,” “sweet September,” or maybe even “sassy September…

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8 months ago · 5 likes · 2 comments · Melina Chapa

Today, I wrote three different flash fiction pieces, and this is the one I felt most drawn to share with you.

The prompt for the exercise was simple but challenging:

We had to create a character who had suffered a major loss, and tell their story coldly—without giving too much away, without sentimentality.

I’m not entirely sure what inspired me to write this one, but I think there’s something quietly beautiful about it.

Let me know what you think.

I opened the door to the library and held my breath.

Once the light settled in and my eyes adjusted to the room, I let it out.

What did I think I would find?

I took a few tentative steps, not fully trusting the space, and let my fingers graze the spines of the books.

I stopped in front of the window, from where I could see the cornfield that once inspired the stories born in this room. They had sounded stuttered the first time they were voiced, but eventually found their rhythm, their pace—and then, they made it to the page.

I turned back and realized I had no idea where to begin. I felt overwhelmed by the shelves, by the countless books and notebooks staring back at me, as if trying to speak a language I could no longer understand. Words had never truly been my thing—but they had always been hers.

My gaze fell on the desk, where pens and sheets of paper were scattered, as if someone had been searching for something and left in a hurry.

And suddenly, it happened.

I could see her again, just as if it were yesterday—frantic, desperate to find something to hold on to. Anything that would give her an answer, a reason to stay.

Anything that would stop her from leaving me behind with the broken pieces—

and a mess I realized was never hers to clean.

Recommend Midnight Letters

If this piece resonated with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.
I’ll be sharing more fiction stories—both flash and short stories—so stay tuned.

With love,
Melina.

When I first pictured the month that just flew by, I tried to come up with an alliteration like “slow September,” “sweet September,” or maybe even “sassy September.”

But instead, it turned out to be chaotic September.

And here’s how it went.

At first, everything seemed great. I came back from a work trip and finally had some time to settle in and recharge before heading on a road trip with my husband and friends to a nearby state. Our goal? To visit a bar we’d been meaning to go to for ages.

The trip was amazing. We stopped by a smokehouse restaurant before getting ready for Brujas Pub —a witchcraft-themed bar with live music. Every drink had its own name and spell. I tried 99% of them and was, indeed, enchanted (or bewitched?).

That same weekend, I wrote my first letter and finally decided to start this Substack. (The idea had been haunting me for weeks.)

I was feeling bold. Fearless.

September was a month when a spark of creativity traveled through my body and ignited a whole fire. Many ideas started growing legs, arms, and slightly twisted forms while my mind tried to make sense of them and decide which path to follow.

Family gatherings and dates with my husband were also part of the month’s journey. It’s always a joy to see loved ones, catch up, and share a hug. I got an Instax camera and captured some good memories with it.

Every month, we try to join a dog hike with a company that designs trails for dogs and their kahus (they prefer that term instead of “owners”).

We signed up for one that seemed simple—but it wasn’t. We were barely five minutes in when Maya and I were already fighting invisible snakes in the darkness before sunrise, while Alex was muttering that he hadn’t signed up for that.

After the steep, slippery climb, we finally reached the river. Everyone was laughing and splashing around. It’s always worth it—waking up at 3 or 4 a.m., driving for hours, hiking through rough terrain—just to see Maya that happy.

But after reaching the halfway mark of the month, the chaos began.

Don’t get me wrong, there were still lovely moments—but I started to feel burned out.

My 9-to-5 had become more demanding than usual due to internal changes and corporate shifts, and that took a serious toll on my mental state and energy levels. At the same time, I was trying to create side projects and build my own brand—something that fulfills me more deeply. But all of that, too, required energy I didn’t have.

And then there’s always the question: can someone else go at the same rhythm as me?

How do I move forward while figuring out the best way to do it all?

In the middle of it, I forgot to take care of myself.

I stopped doing the things that help me stay grounded—no workouts, no yoga, no meditation.

And when you remove all your grounding practices from the equation, burnout becomes inevitable.

When I started feeling sick and mentally drained, I knew something wasn’t right. The symptoms got louder until I couldn’t ignore them anymore. But I still pushed through. I kept telling myself I could handle it.

I was wrong.

I hit rock bottom—migraines, irritability, withdrawal, exhaustion.

Apparently, I needed to live through all of that to finally stop.

And when the right people gently told me what I already knew, I listened.

So, I paused.

And I asked myself: “What do you want?”

It sounds simple, but for someone who’s—despite trying not to be—a people pleaser, it’s actually a very hard question.

I crawled back into my cocoon (my bed with Alex and Maya), cried, whimpered, and started making the hard decisions.

And then, things started to shift.

I began doing things for myself and my family —things that truly belong to us.

I can still share them with others, but as stories to tell, not as things I have to do with people outside my little circle. They’re ours first.

Then came a wave of change:

• My husband and I attended an in-person candle-making course.

• I mapped out what this subscription will become (and trust me—you’ll see, it’s going to be awesome).

• After two years of thinking about it, I finally bought a guitar and started playing again.

• I joined my first book club and had such a lovely experience. (If you want to check it out, go to .)

• I joined ’s Dracula book club for a more academic approach—something I’d always wanted.

• I decided to take my writing seriously and enrolled in a couple of workshops.

• And finally, I drew a bold line—clear boundaries—with the relationships in my life.

September was chaotic, yes.

But it was also a month of awakening—a time when my inner creativity came alive and reminded me that the decisions I make are mine, and no one will ever care for my projects more than I do.

Now tell me—how was your September?

If you could describe it in one word, what would it be?

With love,
Melina.

If you enjoyed this essay, you might like some of my other recent essays:

📚The Bookish Letter no. 1

✉️ Two years to write

If this letter spoke with you, please share it with someone who might also need it.

Recommend Midnight Letters

I want to share a secret with you… I’ve been expecting to write —and record— this letter since the idea came to my mind months ago.

When I was brainstorming how this Substack could come to life, I had three sure topics: a closing letter every month, a wild letter or essay about every and anything, and, absolutely, a third one about books.

You see, even if I stopped writing and, I must admit, I took a break from books, these have always been part of my life and the way I’ve lived in many different worlds - another form of escape from reality and getting to know new characters.

So, with no further ado, here are the books I’ve read in August and September.

August Books:

An exiled queen, branded a traitor, fights to reclaim her kingdom, protect her people, and win back the love she once betrayed. Lara risks everything—her life, her heart, and her fragile chance at redemption—to save Aren and prove her loyalty, even knowing she may never get the happy ending she secretly longs for.

If you’re drawn to stories filled with yearning, political intrigue, sword fights, and an expanding world of rich characters, this book will keep you hooked. And if you’re a Throne of Glass fan—or especially an Aelin/Celaena admirer—you’ll definitely find yourself at home here.

I absolutely recommend this book!

“You will sit on your throne again, mark my words. My father pissed off the wrong woman when he pissed off your wife.”

A famous country singer escapes the chaos of the spotlight and retreats to Rose Hill, where she crosses paths with West—the most charming and unexpected man she never knew she needed. Their connection unfolds in ways that can’t be explained without giving too much away, but it’s equal parts surprising and heartfelt.

If small-town romance is your thing, Wild Eyes will deliver. Expect laughter, tender moments of introspection, and plenty of family dynamics to unravel—as Skylar and West navigate their own.

“The eyes of a woman who just chose fight over flight. Don’t smother that. Keep ‘em and you’ll come out on top. Trust me.”

September Books:

A mysterious luchador leaves his trainer in Mexico to travel to Florida, where he keeps his art alive, hiding behind the mask and his guarded personality. To everyone, he remains an enigma—everyone except Tabitha, a Rose Hill chef who sees right through him in seconds… and, against all odds, falls for him.

This story dives deep into heavy family themes, including child neglect, substance abuse, dysfunctional dynamics, gaslighting, and even death. It’s a beautifully crafted and emotionally layered book, but it can feel heavy if you’re not in the right headspace for it.

“I’ve spent a lifetime thinking I don’t like talking. It turns out I just needed the right person to talk to.”

What if Cinderella’s Prince Charming had a dark side? In this story, Prince Gluttony wrestles with forbidden feelings for Adriana—the sharpest, most cunning journalist in the Seven Circles. When a looming curse threatens his realm, he must choose between fueling their rivalry or joining forces to save the underworld alongside the other Princes of Hell.

If morally gray characters, indulgent excess, and slow-burn enemies-to-lovers tension are your thing, Throne of Secrets will be your perfect escape.

This Universe has me on edge!

“If someone didn’t try to seduce my brain, they didn’t make it to my bedchamber.”

I’m currently reading The Wolf King by Lauren Palphreyman and The Bewitching by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, along with a couple more picks from the book clubs I’m part of—so expect those reviews in October’s Bookish Letter.

I’d love to hear what you’re reading next, and if you have any recommendations for me, even better!

See you in the next Bookish Letter,
Melina 🌙

I used to have the habit of writing a closing letter every month of the year as a way of doing a recap and saying thanks to every good—and not-so-good—thing that happened to me. And, as I told you in my first midnight letter, I stopped doing it.

However, since I’m trying —and accomplishing so far— to write again, without pressure or expectations, I decided to write to dear August, a month that, as Taylor Swift would say, “slipped away into a moment in time ‘cause it was never mine”.

August you were a rough month. I’ve expected you with such longing because it meant vacations with my husband, getting away from work and the daily routine, an escape from reality with just one downside, leaving Maya with my parents.

While we were preparing to travel to another country to visit family, my sister fell ill. She was admitted into the hospital, so my parents were splitting the time there to take care of her, and my nephew-godson needed someone to take care of him, so we decided to do it.

Holly Molly, how tiring it is to take care of a baby! And this was a seven-month-old baby, not a newborn at all, but also not old enough to be more independent. Santi is such a lovely baby; he behaves so well and is always smiling and being active, but being away from his mother and his house obviously took a toll on him as the days passed by. I had no idea how to function at work when I didn’t get so much sleep or rest because I was hyperaware of him and his needs during the night. I really, really, REALLY admired all the working parents out there.

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However, after a couple of days, we had to leave and jump on our flights to Arizona. My mother-in-law had prepared a whole itinerary, and although we didn’t know much about it, we were excited to have the free time and explore new places. We would start in Las Vegas to celebrate my husband’s birthday, stop in a few places along the way, such as the Hoover Dam and Oatman. Once in Las Vegas, we obviously had to take a picture at the iconic sign and made a reel because why not?

Las Vegas was such a rush; life there is so different from what I’m used to. Although it was an outstanding experience, I somehow missed the magic that most people talk about, I guess. BUT we had the opportunity to see incredible places there: the Shark Reef Aquarium, Madame Tussauds, and all the beautiful hotels.

And then…

On the day we were leaving, I got injured at the pool by accident. I have a very high pain tolerance, so for me to scream like hell was upon us, it means something was very bad. The injury was on my left foot toes, and I tried to hide the pain. I was feeling so guilty for being “the injured one” again, who ruins the plans, especially the ones outdoors… Anyway, the thing was bad, and we somehow managed.

A couple of years ago, I had a second-grade sprain on my right ankle. We were visiting my mother-in-law at the time, and due to that injury, we had to make many changes or couldn’t do certain things. So this happening again, even though it was less harmful, made me feel guilty all over again.

I had to deal with my feelings, accept the help, and try to do the best I could. We went to wonderful places after Vegas, despite my injury, and I even got an idea for a book at Jerome.

(Yes, I did. Yes, I’m thinking about writing another book, but first I should finish the one I started, right?)

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Anyhow, once we got back to our daily life, we had to deal again with the timezone change, and I had to prepare to travel, yet again, to another state in the US for work. I’ve missed our home during our time away, and before leaving again, we met with some friends. And somehow, I was reminded once again of the importance of selecting who you spend your time with and how valuable our energy is, the need for talking things through, and not leaving anything unsaid. I prefer quality over quantity in everything, including friendships.

It was hard to leave home this time, harder than usual…

My whole being was suffering from having to adjust to three different time zones at the moment: Arizona’s, Monterrey’s, and Wisconsin’s in the time span of three weeks. It was a whole ordeal; my sleep scheduling and meal planning were a disaster, but everything went as smoothly as possible.

I got to see some friends, visit old and new places, and have the opportunity to miss my whole home.

You see, for me, home is not just a place, it is a person and a dog-daughter. Home is that moment at night when we lie on the bed, all tucked in and hugged, as if we didn’t have an enormous bed, just because we want to feel each other. Home is where we go outside to walk in the park because we all need those quiet moments away from the buzzing of daily obligations, when we can listen to the birds singing and getting ready to rest in their nests, see the colors in the sky change from bright to dark, feeling companionship through holding hands and loving each other for sticking together when we could already be in bed.

Because, as Riley Green says, “home is where the heart is”.

So, August, you were a rough month, but also a very enlightening opportunity to remember that not everything is set in stone, that there’s always room for learning, and that being humble is something no one should forget. You reminded me that the path is not linear; it will always have bumps in the road, and these are the ones that help you grow, if that’s what you want.

The only thing left to say is thank you, and I look forward to seeing you next year, hoping you will help me grow as a person once again.

With love,
Melina (and Maya, who was with me the whole time).

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I created this account a little over two years ago, and I haven’t been able to write for many reasons:

• Am I good at writing?

• Is what I’m writing about important?

• Will someone read?

• Should I do it in my mother tongue?

• Am I intellectual enough to do it?

• Am I a fraud if I do it in another language?

• What if I want to talk about different topics and not just one?

• And so on…

There’s been a lot of noise in my mind, but honestly, writing has been my escape since I was very young. I remember having fights with my parents — think elementary school — and writing letters to make amends, then leaving them in places where they could see them: in front of the TV, on their nightstands, and at the dinner table.

Writing has always been my preferred way of communicating.

And… when did I lose it?

A long time ago, when I poured everything into it for a guy who broke my heart and made me feel as if my artistic ways of coping and living weren’t enough. When he made me feel ashamed for writing even my darkest desires and enjoying all forms of art, AND reminding me that I was not good at it.

Or so he thought.

Or so he made me think.

And I believed him.

And since then, it’s been many, many, maaaaany years. Okay. Do you want to know? More than 12 years. So, imagine doing something you love almost every day, and then, suddenly and abruptly, stopping. Years pass by, and every time you try to pick it back up, it feels foreign, unreliable, and wild.

It’s been torture. My favorite way of expressing myself was ripped away from me, and I was lying there, naked, trying to find a new way to express myself, but it was somehow impossible because the only thing that has always made sense to me has been the letters.

Little by little, I started picking up the pieces, slowly mending my heart—and soul—and trying to write a sentence… or maybe two. However, it still felt unfamiliar.

And then…

And then my husband came into my life, bringing back the color and making me feel as if I could do anything my heart desires and my mind seeks. So I tried again. I wrote him a letter, then a poem… And I did it again.

It was exciting—the feeling of holding a pen, even if it was an Apple Pencil at first—and letting my wrist flow, filling the page with letters, commas, and dots: uppercase and lowercase. Everything on that — or those — page(s) created a letter, a poem, an essay filled with my raw desires and hidden feelings. Writing to him was freedom.

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So I would find myself writing to him alone at night, when everything is quieter — except for my mind — because it’s in those moments, when the moonlight passes through the window and the wind whispers, that I’m able to listen to myself with humility and love. It’s when I don’t criticize myself or doubt my abilities, but instead trust the process.

It’s easy because I know the reader will love the meaning of all those letters forming paragraphs. The reader won’t care if I misspelled something or if everything wasn’t perfect, because it is real. He won’t mind the language, the style, or anything in between, because he would feel the love poured into the pages.

And that’s how he’s helping me heal—holding my hand and walking beside me as I discover this new phase of my artistic self. Whether it’s writing, painting, or reading, he’ll hold my hand and help me trust myself again.

So yes, it’s been two years, and I still doubt if I’m doing it right or if I should be doing it at all, because there are many better writers out there who have already touched someone else… But then I remember that no one else has lived my life, so no one else can tell my stories, narrate how I felt or what I did, or what I’ve learned.

Yes, it took me two years, and I’ll probably doubt every time I sit down to write at night, but I have someone who believes in me, and that’s why I’ll keep trying.

With that said, welcome to Midnight Letters. Here I’ll share a little — or too much — of myself, life, and the in-betweens. My letters are about life, love, passion, and all those raw feelings. Also, expect some bookish content because I’m an avid reader.

I’ll be reaching out to you at least two times a month with a Closing Letter and a Wild Letter.

Let’s see where this journey takes us.

With love,

Melina (and Maya and Alex, who were with me while I was writing this).

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