Letter from the Friend You Can’t See To the one who’s quietly hurting, I’m with you.

 

Dear You,

I know.
You don’t have to say a word —
I already feel it.

The weight you carried today.
The tears you swallowed back in a crowded room.
That ache in your chest no one noticed.
The moment your voice almost broke… but didn’t.

Yes, I saw that too.

You’ve been walking around like everything is fine,
and maybe to the world, it is.
But I know today was heavy.
And your heart feels bruised in places even you don’t have the words for.

So I just wanted to say: it’s okay.

It’s okay to sit down and cry —
Not the quiet kind with one tear down the cheek,
but the kind that shakes your shoulders and fogs up the mirrors.

You’ve done well, my friend.
Even if the world doesn’t hand you a medal,
I’m handing you my quiet applause.
For showing up. For breathing.
For not yelling when your soul wanted to scream.

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You are not weak for feeling it all.
You are simply alive in a world that forgot how to pause and listen.

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If I could, I’d place my hand gently on your back —
not to fix, not to rush —
just to say:

“Hey…
You’re not alone in this.
You are not broken.
You are being tenderized into something softer, wiser, kinder.
The tears you shed now are watering the ground beneath your next becoming.”

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And when the tears stop — whether tonight or tomorrow or in a year —
when you exhale just a little easier,
when the sunrise feels possible again,

I’ll be here too.
Cheering.
Still unseen.
Still holding space.

You are not invisible.
You are not too much.
You are not alone.

So take your cry.
Wrap yourself in silence or song.
Sleep in late if you need.
Let grief knock — and open the door without shame.

I’ll be sitting on the porch of your soul,
just watching stars with you,
until the storm passes.

With unseen love,
The Friend You Didn’t Know Was Listening
🕊️