Notes

Dear Ryu,
We haven't talked properly for a while, and therefore, I wrote a proper letter at last. I apologize, if i've been annoying to you in any way, I was trying to soften you a little. Please, do read this till the end. I did not know how and that is simply because i do not know how. In general, to soften oneself. I dont need to know, that burning desire of curiosity is melting. There is something, when two sad people come together. It is like, even if i understand what you feel, i still want to help.
I won't, i mean i will, but indirectly. But why? why do i? I never did before. I do not care, i told you that. Perhaps, i just want something good to come out of me. I will figure this out later, but i'd like to tell you a story, a not very intriguing one.
When i was a child, my mother, she left me to make decisions on my own. I would tell her, "mom, please help me" And she would say "One day Layan, all you'll have is your bones, so help yourself."
I did not fathom it back then, i would always become exasperated. But as i grew older, and discovered the loss of friends, misjudgements, misinterpretations of who i am, loneliness, darkness, and sadness, i finally understood. I suppose, that we loose everything, even our souls, and all we all have is our bones to carry.
My mother, she never said a kind word to me, yet, you can feel a touch of kindness in her voice. If you detect it quickly.
I never talked to her in my younger years, I fully developed a true friendship when i was 14. She does not know me, at all. She thinks she does, but ask her who I am, and she'll tell you all the compliments she knows. Then let me, myself, ask her who I am., and she'd say "nobody"
I was always trying to please her, to accept me, or rather just understand me. To enter the room and hug me, to sit beside me on my bed and rock me like a baby. I needed that. I never asked for the toughens. I never asked to be on my own. And i pormised, that i would never let a human being feel that way. The "unlovedness" Actually, i promised never to be like her. It is a fear i have, to grow to be my mother. I told you a part now, a very "infinitesimal" part. (it means small)
I want to tell you another childish story.
When i was in second grade, i wrote the first ever story of my life. It was about two lost girls getting lost in a forest and then being attacked by a monster. At the end, they did elude, however, i forgot how. But my teacher, she was blown away with my skills, she contacted my parents and told them i was a, accurately, a "special kid"
Here's another one.