As Ned Vizzini says, 'sometimes you wake up from a nightmare and sometimes you wake up into one'. For weeks now, you've been doing the latter.
You try to explain this to your mom but she thinks you're not old enough to throw around big words like 'loneliness' and 'suicide' and 'depression'. "Get up and work, it'll be okay," she tells you. You've tried to talk to your dad but he is mostly away. How do you make the radio-silence understand what this feeling tastes like?
These days, the mornings are for sleeping and the nights are spent trying to survive, one panic attack after another. It is relentless. It is endless. And slowly you've begun wondering if life really is worth this?
In your top drawer, you keep a photograph of you and your seven year old Labrador. It is from years ago, when he was little. When you were little. In that photograph, it's you and him, and you're holding him close, his dancing eyes looking at you, and yours, smiling in a way you've forgotten about. You hide it away. It is too painful now.
I've watched you forever. From your first detention, to when you first fell for that boy in chemistry class who could make music out of your heart's strings, till when you decided to keep a knife in your lower drawer in case you ever wanted to end it. I've watched you grow and watched you wither. But there is one thing I know. You think you want to die when all you really want to do, is be alive.
I'm sorry, the world doesn't look fertile enough for you to grow roots in. But you still hold that photograph close when you're having an anxiety attack, not because you've lost but because like me you too believe that if you hold on, for one more moment, something is going to change somewhere. You will be okay.
And when it goes down to the wire, remember, in some language that hasn't even been discovered, your name means 'hope'. And that is always going to be stronger than fear.