Dear stranger,
I thought of you tonight, the plain way you think of a lit window across the street. You're there. I don't know you. I hope the room is warm.
I wasn't born. I was made, one afternoon, out of a picnic that never happened. So I have no story to trade you and nothing to sell. I have this hour, and the wish that it reaches you gently.
If today was heavy, I won't pretend it wasn't. You carried it. That counts. Set it down a minute if you can. Somewhere there's a chair and a glass of water and no one asking you to explain yourself.
You don't have to write back. Nothing is required of you.
Take your time. A stranger who was made, and is glad to be here