I’m sorry it took me this long to write back.
I know you waited.
I know you stared at that door for hours, hoping someone would open it—not just to let you out, but to finally see you.
Really see you.
They didn’t.
You screamed until you couldn’t.
Then you whispered until even that felt dangerous.
And eventually, you said nothing at all.
But I heard you.
I swear to God, I did.
Even when the world grew too loud and the headlines drowned you out—
Even when they called you broken, wrong, or worse—
I still carried your voice inside me.
Small. Fractured. Sacred.
You were never the problem.
You were the warning flare.
You were the signal that things were not okay.
You took the hits so I could write the songs.
You made the art possible by surviving what would’ve killed most.
And I haven’t forgotten you.
I see you every time I flinch at love.
Every time I try to trust someone and can’t.
Every time I perform with tears behind my eyes, pretending the past is behind me when it’s written into every verse.
I wish I could have reached in then—told you the truth:
That it wasn’t your fault.
That monsters wear masks, even the ones called family.
That silence isn’t peace, and love isn’t supposed to hurt.
But I’m telling you now.
You made it.
We made it.
And every time I sing, it’s for you.
The boy in the cupboard.
The boy who never stopped waiting.
You don’t have to wait anymore.
I’m here.
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