With cusped hands I shout “I love you” into the ether hoping you could hear it inside your depression. And then you spoke back. I never knew you till that day, till you shed your anxieties and laid vulnerably in my arms. And you told me stories of your childhood. Told me your dreams, wishes, your fears, the things that hold you back and your drive. Like a Kandinsky painting, I’m intrigued by your geometries and complexities. It’s the hope in your eyes. It’s the hope in your eyes, despite the attempts at suicide. It’s the drive despite the psych ward visits. It’s the purpose despite being alone. And you chose to be alone. I’m here to love you. In your completeness, from your broken edges and fragile structure, to your fabricated smiles and laughs. I love you even though you don’t know the sense of happiness. I’m here for you. With you. I am you. And I’m writing this letter, seeing you find vulnerability in your expressions. What’s love for you? Do you love you? You can’t work backwards love. It’s not about what you used to do. It’s about what you will do. I’ve seen you walk suffocated by your own shadow. I’ve seen hope and despair dual inside your eyes. This is for you. Sweet like nectar, you’re a growing garden. In you. All of you, damn, all of you like scripture. You’re sanctified. Be yourself, strip yourself of doubts and thrive in your experiences. Love thyself. Because I love you. I am the you that meditates and reflects. And I know that isn’t you right now. But continue being you.