I hope you read this someday.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not even this year. I want you to read this 30 years from now, when you’re broken and sobbing and kicking yourself for making such a stupid decision. I want you to go up to your attic, dust this off, and remember.
I want you to remember me for who I really was. Not the fun, crazy girl who spent her time trying to convince others that she was okay, that she didn’t care what everyone else thought. I want you to remember how she was always looking down when she walked, how she was always so guarded with her words and, for such a long time, only wanted to share them with you. You, who could be found at the center of every single one of her words.
Thirty years from now, her words may still be about you, on occasion. They’ll be words of fondness, love, and a touch of the regret that plagues her now.
Because if she had changed just one minute all those years ago, her world would have become a different place.
So, she wants to thank you. No matter what you did wrong, what you did right, what you shouldacouldawoulda fixed, you gave her her words, something else no one else ever bothered to give her.
Know that I holds my head high when I walk now, that I take the time to describe the shades of red and blue and green in my heart that make up my memories of you. Know that I take the initiative to share my heart with the little girl on the street gazing into the candy shop windows, the old man feeding the pigeons in the park, and even the publisher who told me he wants my words to be heard.
He likes my words. He likes you. Maybe we did something right after all.
