I worry about you. Every day actually. You’re so fragile, but yet you put up with so much. You stretch yourself way beyond capacity and it hurts you. I don’t want to see you get hurt, but if you are hurting (which I know you are) all I want to do is help; I want to make your pain go away. But you won’t let me.


Maybe there’s nothing I can do to make you feel better, but I’d like to feel like I am doing all that I can. Like the effort I put forth is appreciated. Maybe its not appreciated, maybe it actually makes it worse. I just need to know. And when you’re troubled, I’m here ready to talk. But you aren’t ready. Which I understand, when things happen sometimes we just want to be alone for a while to think it over; to calm down. But you are never ready to talk, no matter how long you’ve had. You keep to yourself and hold all of your pain as if you want to keep it all to yourself. I’m here, the pain will be less if you share it, and I’m willing to hurt with you.

For now, I just hope you’re okay…