It was good writing you this morning. And it was really scary. I probably shouldn’t have written, but I couldn’t just not reply. When I saw what you wrote, how you wrote it, I suddenly felt empty as if I had been drained. I wanted to write something short to tell you how much it means to me if you were a bit more kind, but it kept rolling and I felt like I couldn’t make it any shorter anymore. I’m sorry.

Your response was really good to read. I didn’t know what to expect back — it was so hard to write, I had trouble thinking it through. I just wanted to tell you what I felt, even if it was useless or meaningless. It’s still hard for me, really hard. But I’m glad you replied in a kinder way. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to force you to do anything. It’s so strange, I’m afraid to force you because I felt that I was always forced to love my parents, and I know how amazingly selfish and hurtful it is to ask someone to be kind. I think it’s the first time I ever did that in my life. I’m sorry.

Other than the mail I wrote, today was uneventful. I was just worried and my heart was heavy. It was so hard to stand on my legs, walk around, do things. Everything felt repetitive as if I was living a copy of a copy of a copy of my life, with all the rich, beautiful detail deteriorated into some common blur that makes no sense anymore. Lately, I feel like a shadow, sneaking through life without purpose, just waiting, waiting.