Dear you,

Thank you.

For not flinching when I did. For not walking away when I gave you every excuse to. For not loving the mask, but the mess.

You could’ve left. There were days I almost told you to.

I wasn’t always kind. Or soft. Or steady.

There were nights I curled inward, days I went quiet, moments I said the wrong thing when I meant “please stay.”

But you stayed.

You stayed when I was guarded. When I was grief-worn and irritable. When I didn’t have the words. When I didn’t want to be held, but didn’t want to be alone either.

You didn’t ask me to sparkle. Or explain. Or earn it.

You just kept loving me. Even when I wasn’t gentle. Even when I wasn’t grateful. Even when I wasn’t sure I deserved it.

And that kind of love— that quiet, patient, unpretty love— healed things in me I didn’t know could be healed.

So this is for you.

For the one who answered the phone on the third call, not the first. For the one who hugged me after I snapped at them. For the one who said, “You don’t have to apologize. I know you’re tired.”

I’m sorry it wasn’t always easy. I’m sorry I couldn’t always say this when it mattered most.

But please hear me now:

Thank you.

You loved me when I wasn’t easy to love.

And that made me believe I could love myself too.