I’ve often wondered how someone I’ve never met in real life could be so gentle with me. From the very beginning, you treated me with a kindness I didn’t even know I was missing. Your words found me when my mind was loud and restless, when everything felt like too much. Even on days I was barely holding myself together, your comments would soften something inside me, if only for a moment, and let me breathe.
Lately, things have been difficult. Academically, and in ways that feel much deeper than that. I tried to cope the best I could, but I’m tired now. It feels like I’m standing at the edge of something, afraid that if I lean even a little, I’ll fall and won’t have the strength to stand again. The people around me haven’t made it easier. Everyone seems to take what they want and leave, and my thoughts spiral endlessly in the quiet that follows.
I know — logically — that none of this defines my worth. I know I deserve better. But knowing something doesn’t always stop the hurt. It’s far too easy to turn that pain inward, to blame myself for everything. Sometimes, even my family adds to that weight without realizing it. I’ve never really had people who understood me, and somewhere along the way, I accepted that this might just be how things are—that I might always be alone in that sense.
I’m sorry for rambling. I think I’ve been doing that a lot lately: overthinking until my thoughts blur together.
What I really wanted to say is this: you have been incredibly precious to me. Your kindness, your words, the way you show up so gently, they mean more to me than I know how to explain. Sometimes they move me to tears, not out of sadness, but because they remind me that warmth still exists somewhere.
Please don’t be disheartened. I’m not disappearing forever. I love writing too much to abandon it, and I love SEVENTEEN even more. And yes, I love you too, in the quiet, sincere way that holds gratitude and care.