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TÂM ANMỖI NGÀY

Letter to Myself, Tomorrow Morning

Tâm An mỗi ngày3 min read
A folded sheet of paper under a face-down phone on a small folding table beside a bed, a glass of warm water next to it, pale grey early light through a curtain

Dear me of tomorrow morning,

It is 22:40 tonight. I am sitting at the little folding table beside the bed, half a glass of iced tea going warm, the fan swinging back and forth so the scrap paper flutters. Somewhere down the alley someone is singing karaoke off-key, and it is not yet their bedtime. I am writing because tomorrow, when you read this, you will not be fully awake, and I want to talk to you before the two of us start arguing.

I know you. You set the alarm for 5:50, then 6:00, then 6:10, then lie there working out whether getting up at 6:25 still leaves time to eat. The phone will be right by your pillow, and your thumb will open it before your eyes do. I am not writing to blame you for that. I have done exactly that for many mornings in a row, and not one of them made me a worse person. I just felt pulled along a little, from the very first minute.

Earlier Giang, my roommate, called over from the other bed:

"What time are you getting up tomorrow?"

"Six. And then sitting for a bit."

"Sitting how?"

"Just sitting. I don't know yet."

Giang laughed and turned to face the wall. "You said that last time." I did not argue, because she was right.

What I have not told anyone is that I do not need you up early. I only want a short stretch of tomorrow when nobody needs you yet. No message from the department head, no electricity bill notification, nothing asking you to reply. Three minutes. Some mornings you will spend them looking at the ceiling and thinking about the reconciliation sheet. That is fine. Knowing you are thinking about the sheet is still different from being dragged off by it without noticing.

I also owe you an apology in advance. Tonight I scrolled on my phone until 22:15, though I had promised myself 21:30. So if you are more tired than planned tomorrow, do not add that voice saying "see, I knew it." I know that voice. It talks fast and sounds a lot like the truth. But it is only a voice, not a verdict.

I am grateful to you for one small thing. On those earlier mornings, lazy as you were, you still got up, still lifted the lid of the thermos, still poured water into that faded blue plastic cup with the duck on it. Nobody praised you. Your hand still knew where to go.

I will keep the promise small. Tomorrow I promise not to open the phone while the warm water is still hot. If you forget, open it, and try again tomorrow night. I do not promise you will be up at six, because I know you, and because every promise should be one you can keep.

One more thing, said quietly. If for many weeks in a row you wake up every morning feeling heavy and worn out, the kind where nothing is wrong and you still cannot bring yourself to leave the blanket, then do not just change the alarm. Tell someone with professional training. That is not a matter of willpower, and it is not the morning's fault.

If you want to try something tomorrow, this is how I picture it:

Practice · 3 min

Three minutes before you open the phone

  1. 1.Tonight, put the phone an arm's length from the pillow, screen down
  2. 2.Tomorrow, when you wake, lie still for one more breath before you reach out
  3. 3.Sit up, put both feet on the tiles and notice whether they feel cool or warm
  4. 4.Take a sip of warm water and breathe out slowly once
  5. 5.Sit for about three minutes, eyes wherever they land, hearing whatever there is to hear
  6. 6.When your mind runs off, notice it and come back to the tiles under your feet, no need to count how often
  7. 7.If three minutes feels too long, one is fine, and if you cannot get up, that is fine too, try again tomorrow night

I will leave this paper under the phone, so you read it before you see any message. That much I can arrange.

I hope your morning is light, or not light at all, which is also fine. The fan is still turning, the tea is still half full, and I am going to brush my teeth and turn off the lamp.

Tonight's me, 22:52

This article was created with AI assistance.

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