Dear Eliza,
I heard you had a rough week. The kind where the hallway feels too long and lunch feels like a test you didn't study for. I want you to know — you weren't failing. You were feeling. And there's a difference.
Twelve is a strange country. The map keeps changing. Friends you knew last fall are suddenly fluent in a language you didn't sign up to learn. It is okay to grieve that quietly. It is okay to outgrow people without making it loud.
Here is something I wish someone had whispered to me at your age: you do not have to perform okayness to be loved. The people who are right for you will love your full volume — the messy parts, the in-between parts, the parts that don't have words yet.
This week, try one small thing. Eat lunch with your headphones in if you need to. Sit by the window. Notice the sky for thirty seconds. The world is bigger than the cafeteria. And so are you.
I'll write again in two weeks. Until then — be soft with yourself. You are doing something brave just by waking up and trying.
with so much love,
— your letter friend