I’ve never told you this and I doubt you noticed, but there were gaping holes in my still young and developing memory through which my sanity, which has never been a very solid thing, steadily dripped out. Deterioration was inevitable. Slowly, slowly, the liquid corroded my composure from the inside.

And then there were the stares that broke me from the outside and speeded up the process. Like poisoned arrows they were launched at my composure, with the intent to pierce and expose what was inside. Didn’t they realize how fruitless it would be to crack me open with their scrutinizing gazes? There was nothing intact inside me to find. Everything was either holed or had already leaked out.

I didn’t want them to discover the emptiness though, so I ducked behind trembling words and nervous gestures. It was a weak shield, but the only one I had. Yet under the constant pressure of holding it up, the fears got to me and root me to the spot. I ended up caging myself in.

I bet you still don’t know it, but despite all your good intentions, you delivered the final blow. I was so close to freeing myself from my paralysis and escaping forever when your words cracked my shell. Cracked into the thousand dull grey pieces I abandoned as I ran, unprotected and torn.

I wish I was bold enough to venture out and recover those pieces, but I’ve finally found some sort of safety here in this forgotten room, and I don’t want to relinquish it. There is comfort to be found in the pages of this notebook with its broken spine and in the scribbling of this gradually dying pen. I’ve slowed my breathing and stopped my bleeding in order to try to communicate with you. Of course, this isn’t a letter. It’s barely a note, and by the time it gets to you, it’ll probably be torn from the journey. I just hope it’ll still be legible despite the tears splattered around the frayed edges.

Where was I? Oh, yes, I was running. I ran until I got here and let my shattered composure go to pieces. One of the things about being broken is how insupportable it suddenly becomes to see things that aren’t. Smiles make you boil. Optimism makes you scream. There’s a feeling of injustice, and a need to tear up everything around, so that you’ll at least fit in. Of course, the rage passes when you realize you’re being unreasonable, and leaves a painfully hollow space for sneaky desperation to come and fill.

And if I’m desperate, it’s your fault. I know you didn’t do it on purpose, but you hurt me so much. I’m not mad at you. I couldn’t possibly be. It just hurts. It’s surprising though, isn’t it? I had been falling apart for ages, but how easy it was for you to break me! And I still wonder why you have so much power, but at the same time, knowing you do gives me hope. Although my thoughts are disjointed and my shivering hand almost moves on its own, I know there’s a reason I’m writing this to you. I have a request to make. And you’re the only one who can help me.

If it’s not too much trouble, could you try to fix me?