I don't even know where to start. I've been staring at this blank page for what feels like an entire afternoon, and all I can think about is how you never seemed to struggle with starting things. You always just... began. Even when the outcome wasn't clear. Even when I doubted myself, you'd somehow believe for the both of us.
It's strange, the way certain people hold you together without even knowing they're doing it. You weren't the loudest voice in my life, but you were steady. Solid. When I wavered, you didn't push - you just stood there, reminding me by your presence that I wasn't about to fall apart completely.
Maybe that's why losing touch with you feels like misplacing a part of myself. I've met new people, good people, and yet the space you left has never really been filled.
I think it's because you weren't just "there" for the happy parts. You stood with me in the ugly moments - the ones I wanted to hide from everyone, including myself. And you never flinch. That kind of loyalty leaves a mark you don't forget, no matter how much time passes.
Back then, I didn't understand how rare that kind of faith is. Now I do.
I remember the night I almost quit. You probably don't, or maybe you do and just never mentioned it. I was tired and not the kind of tired a good night's sleep fixes, but the bone-deep kind where you start wondering if trying is even worth it. I didn't tell anyone, but you must have seen it in my face. You called me over, sat me down, and told me I was "closer than I thought," I didn't believe you, but I pretended I did.
I can still hear the quiet certainty in your voice. It wasn't dramatic or overly encouraging; it was calm, almost casual, like you were stating a fact rather than offering comfort. And somehow, that made it more believable, people underestimate the power of someone speaking the truth into you without the sugar-coating. That night, you gave me a truth I wasn't ready to accept - but it settled in me anyway, waiting for the right moment to grow roots.
Looking back now, I think I borrowed your belief until I had enough of my own.
You had this habit of laughing at my excuses. Not in a cruel way - more like you saw right through them and refused to let them stick. "You're scared," you'd say, "but you're also capable." And somehow, hearing that from you made it less terrifying to take the next step.
There's a kind of courage that's quiet, almost invisible. You had it. And you shared it without making a big deal out of it.
I wish I could tell you how much that changed me.
It wasn't just the big moments - it was the little ones, too. The way you'd send me a text in the middle of the day, just a sentence or two, like you somehow knew I was spiraling. Or the way you'd roll your eyes when I started doubting again, as if to say, here we go, but I'm still here.
You never asked for anything in return. Not my success, not my loyalty, not even my thanks. You just...gave.
Sometimes I wonder what you saw in me back then. I was a mess - inconsistent, insecure, constantly talking myself out of trying. Maybe you saw the part of me I kept buried. Or maybe you didn't see anything specific, you just decided to believe anyway.
I've learned since then that belief is a choice. And it's a hard one to make when the other person can't promise you anything.
We don't talk like we used to. Life got busy, and the distance grew without either of us meaning for it to. I'm not angry about it.
Some people come into your life for a season, and that doesn't make them any less important. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the way things were.
There are moments when I catch myself reaching for my phone, my fingers hovering over your name. I imagine telling you about the victories - the kind you'd understand better than anyone and even the failures, because you never judged me for those either. But then I stop, not because I don't want to share, but because I'm not sure if reopening that door would be fair to either of us. Sometimes, love and gratitude are meant to be carried quietly, without asking for more.
There are days I catch myself wanting to send you a message, just to say, Hey, I'm doing it now - the thing I didn't think I could do. But I never hit send. Maybe because I don't know if you need to hear it. Maybe because I don't want to interrupt your life.
Or maybe because part of me likes keeping it as a silent thank you, a debt that doesn't need to be paid.
I still hear your voice sometimes, usually when I'm about to give up. You're not telling me anything new - just the same words you said years ago. You're closer than you think. Funny how something that simple can stick with a person.
I wish you could see me now. Not because I've "made it" - whatever that means - but because I'm still here, still trying, still moving forward. And so much of that is because of you.
There's one more thing I've never told you:
I believe in you, too. I always did, even when you didn't realize it. You had your own battles, and I didn't always know how to help. But if I could send anything back in time, it would be that - the reminder that you just as capable as you made me feel.
Maybe this letter will never reach you.
Maybe it's not supposed to. But I needed to write it, if only to set it down in front of me and acknowledge that I didn't get here alone.
Some people plant seeds they'll never see grow. You did that for me. And I want you to know - whether you ever read this or not - that the roots are deep now.