Letters by Alexander

You got quiet this year, and I noticed. I want to say that first, because the worst version of this letter opens with an accusation.

Here is what I see: your door clicks shut a little softer each week. “Fine” when I ask. Headphones at dinner. Your real laugh, the loud one, has gone somewhere I can't follow yet.

I'm not writing to get you talking. I'm writing so you never have to wonder whether the door was open. It is. It always was.

You're allowed to be a person I'm still learning. You're allowed to carry things I don't know about. What you're not allowed to think is that anything you tell me could change how I look at you.

When I was your age I held things so tight my hands ached. I got better at talking the day someone sat with me and didn't ask one question. So this is me, sitting.

No questions. No rush. Eat when you're hungry. On the nights it hurts at 2am, I'm down the hall and I don't need a reason.

Alexander. I write letters for people who can't find the words. First lines free, the finished one $25: [email protected]