I'm not born from diamonds and velvet. I've lived plenty of harsh winters and suffered hot summers with nothing more than a handle of Captain and a notebook, nearly falling to pieces from its spine. I've lived plenty. I've lived more than you have.

That doesn't mean I have the answers.

I'm just as lost as you are. I just have more experience in this hell we're both barely surviving through. You tell me you can make it, but I know you could because I was you, and I'm still here.

That doesn't mean I can convince you to stay.

You're hundreds of miles away from me, and sometimes you're a short drive to my door, but we're worlds apart. We won't share a life together, and I'll probably never see your face. I'll never hear your voice. I'm not close enough to you to stop you from making mistakes or hurting yourself.

That doesn't mean it's my fault when you do these things. I cannot save you.

No one can save you from yourself.

I am not a counselor. I am not a therapist.

I am a writer.

Do not make me your only hope, because I will fail you. I will  a l w a y s  fail you.

I am also broken, so if you ask me for extra pieces, I will have nothing left to repair myself with.

I am so tired of trying to be there for you, and feeling like if I say something wrong I'm the reason you hurt yourself. I have never even seen your face. I don't even know who you are. You torture me with these strange, misguided accusations of my character, and now that I'm away from you I'm tortured further. So now, I'm cold. Cruel. I tell you now, Go  a w a y.

Authors, readers, please seek better help than me. I'm no one's champion.

I can't save you.