Will You Still Read Me When I’m Gone?

But in this moment, we’re still together.

Photo by Ahmet Yüksek ✪ on Unsplash

The other night, I sat at my desk at 2 AM. My coffee had gone cold, like it usually does when I get lost in writing. The house was quiet, everyone asleep, and there I was, chasing words that may or may not matter to anyone else.

And then this odd thought hit me: what happens to these stories when I’m not here anymore?

Will anyone find them?

Will someone—maybe even you—be scrolling through old archives years later, and stumble on my words?

Will you pause, read a line, and for a second, feel what I once felt?

You see, these pieces I write—they’re not just words on a screen. They’re little pieces of me: my messy thoughts, my small joys, my heavier days. I tuck them in here, between commas and paragraphs. Sometimes it feels like I’m leaving breadcrumbs behind, hoping someone will follow.

I remember the very first time I felt this. I must have been in my thirties. I wrote a short essay about how I struggled with failure, printed it out, and left it on the table. My mother picked it up, read it quietly, and just said, “This feels true.” That was it—just two words. But I’ll never forget it.

That’s when I realized—writing is just about connection. It’s not about fancy sentences or perfect grammar. It’s about whether someone reads your words and whispers, Me too.

And sometimes, I laugh imagining you—yes, you—reading a line that made me cry when I wrote it.

How strange is that? You, sitting wherever you are, maybe with your morning tea or maybe half-asleep in bed, suddenly meeting me in this exact moment.

That’s the funny thing about writing. It’s not like photographs or videos that capture a face. Writing captures the inside. The heart. The quiet, unspoken things. In a way, writers leave behind little ghosts of themselves—time capsules of feelings that don’t age.

So maybe, one day, when I’m long gone, you’ll open an old Substack email of mine. Maybe you’ll smile, perhaps you’ll shake your head and think, This guy sure loved his coffee. But for a second, I’ll be there, not in body, but in words.

And that, to me, feels magical. That two people who never met, who may even live in different centuries, can sit together in this small, invisible way.

So if you’re reading this now—whether I’m alive, or just a memory in these stories—thank you. We’ve connected. And I can’t think of anything more beautiful than that.

P.S. I’d love to hear from you. Have you ever thought about what will happen to your words, or your creations, after you’re gone? Do you want them to be remembered, or do you write just for the moment?

Hit the comment button and tell me—I promise I’ll read every word. After all, that’s the real magic of writing: the connection goes both ways.