If I read you the words I wrote you’d hear them in my tears. You’d freeze at the trembling in my voice. Your eyes would stare at me lost. Like I was when I wrote it. You’d ask questions I can no longer answer. I will say sorry. Sorry for feeling that way. For sharing that with you. I’m sorry for being weak. And I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. And you will tell me not to be. And I will tell you that I know that now. But I don’t. Sometimes I think how I used to. And when I’m come to you, please, just be there. Cause having you there, having you know, it makes all the difference. And if there is anything I could tell my past self, it’d be to find you sooner.