Dear Reader, P3, Please read P1,P2

I think about the person I thought I would be by now, someone stronger, more fearless, more put-together. Someone who didn’t cry over things that happened years ago. Things that happened last week. Memories from when I first wore a backpack. Memories now. Someone who had it figured out. I’m fifteen, and I don’t have it figured out. I have a boyfriend who loves me, and I love him too. Sometimes we write songs together and it feels like the most beautiful moment in the world. Still, I get scared that one day all the beautiful things I have will slip through my fingers the way other things have. Quietly. Gradually. Without me even realizing it until it’s too late. I don’t know if what I feel is regret or just the quiet grief of unmet expectations. Both? Neither? Sometimes I catch myself wondering if I’m already too late to become who I want to be. I know that sounds dramatic, and I know I’m still so young, but it doesn’t stop the hurt. I’m not writing this because I want someone to fix it. I don’t think anyone can. I just needed to admit it, to put it somewhere outside my head so it doesn’t echo as loud. Writing it down makes it feel less like I’m drowning in silence. Even if no one reads this, even if this letter disappears into the void, I’ll know I said it. That has to count for something. With love and sorrow, Your Amanda Nolan