You let me in. You chose to pick up my book from the shelf, or click on its cover on your screen. You opened it, and turned the pages. And in that moment, you let me in. You allowed me to be a part of your life. You read the words painted upon the pages, and entered the world I created. You gave me access to your heart. To your mind. To your judgment. You fell in love. You filled with rage. You cried. You forgave. And maybe, you didn’t understand, but accepted what I presented to you all the same.
And then… you gave back. You sent me messages. Mailed me letters. Created beautiful works of art. Shared your life… with me. I’ve read every single word you wrote. I kept the gifts you gave to me. You were brave enough to confide in me. Know that my heart will forever hold your journeys of survival sacred. I watched you wait in line for hours just to receive a signature and a picture, and I couldn’t have loved you more. I wish I could have given you more. I wish I could show you a glimpse of my soul so you can see how much you’ve changed me.
You don’t know me. Not really. Yet… you trusted me with your emotions. You may not have liked how I made you feel along the way. But in the end, you stood by me, holding onto hope that I would keep you safe. You refused to give up on me. And you still haven’t, even in this year of silence… you are still there, waiting for me…. for my words. Believing in me. Still allowing me to be a part of your lives.