When the fireworks explode on New Year’s Eve, all yellow and blue and purple, but your hand is without another to hold and your lips are sticky with sea salt and you can feel your knees beginning to buckle beneath the weight of your solitude: I will be there. When he tells you that he has fallen out of love and you can feel your heart sitting in the back of your throat, barricading the words you should have said years ago, suffocating your windpipes until they snap: I will be there. When the days are grey, and the rain shatters your windowpanes, and the wind hisses between the strands of your hair, and the clouds disguise the sun as but another dull and broken soul: I will be there. I am only young, and to say I am wise would be to say I have lived enough of this life to know how it works. But I have not lived, and there are many things I do not yet know. My advice is weightless, a feather drifting across an endless nighttime sky. I am only young, but to say I am unwise would be to say I have not learned from this life. My dear, I promise you this: I will be here.
L.G. To The Girls Who Have Always Been Here
