College coaches sliding into her messages.
Strangers calling her brave, inspiring, iconic.
And then the thing thatdestroys me:
A clip of her laughing by the skating rink bonfire.
Free.
Light.
Alive.
Without me.
My throat closes.
I replay it again.
And again.
And again.
Until something clicks.
Until an idea hits me so hard my breath leaves my body.
A love letter.
But not an old-school paper one.
Not ink and cursive and envelopes.
A modern one.
A digital one.
Something raw, public, undeniable.
If she’s rewriting her story online…
If she’s reclaiming her voice in front of the whole damn world…
Then maybe the only way to reach her heart
is to match her.
Not copy her.
Not outdo her.
Not overshadow her.
But speak her language.
Let the world see what she means to me.
Let the world see the truth she won’t let herself believe.
