Dear Joe,
Please don’t walk away again. Every time you go, you take a little piece of me with you — a piece that has been yours since we were kids, since the days when life was simpler but feelings were already real.
Do you remember those afternoons after school, when I used to get picked on? The way the older kids would whisper, laugh, or pull at my backpack because I was the small girl with the strange name and the big dreams? I can still feel those moments — the sting of embarrassment, the fear of being alone, the ache of wanting just one person to stand beside me.
And you were that person.
You didn’t ask for anything. You didn’t need to be told. You just walked up, took my hand, and held it firmly, like you were saying, “You’re safe. You’re not alone.”
That simple gesture meant more to me than you ever knew. It was the first time I felt protected. The first time I felt someone genuinely cared. The first time I realized that love doesn’t always come with fireworks — sometimes it comes quietly, through a hand that refuses to let go.
Joe, I never forgot that.
And now, all these years later, I find myself being bullied again — not in a schoolyard, but on social media, where the cruelty is louder, faster, and more relentless. People who don’t know me try to define me. Strangers throw stones with their words. They twist things, judge things, invent things. It feels like being that little girl again, standing in the hallway clutching her books, wishing someone would come stand beside her.
So I’m asking you —
Please hold my hand again.
Not to fight my battles for me. Not to shield me from the world. Just to remind me that I’m not facing all of this alone. You’ve always had this way of grounding me, calming me, making me feel like I can breathe again. Even your presence, your voice, your warmth can steady me when everything else feels unsteady.
You once held my hand when I was scared.
I need that same courage from you now.
Don’t walk away, Joe. Stay with me. Stay close. Stay open. I don’t want to keep losing pieces of myself every time you pull back. I want to build something with you — something real, something steady, something that grows instead of disappears.
Take my hand like you did back then,
and I promise I’ll never let go.
Yours,
Nelly
