you typed in the address at the end of the book, and here you are.

i wasn’t sure what to put here. anything that asked something of you felt wrong — you’ve just finished, and whatever’s moving in you doesn’t need a task laid on top of it. so this is mostly just a place to land. you don’t have to do anything with it. not tonight. not ever, if you don’t want to.

if what came up is heavier than a book can hold, though — please tell someone you trust, in your own voice, when you’re ready. not me. someone who can sit beside you in the same room.

there’s a little more here if you’d like it — some things to keep, some of what valentine and i have written since. all of it optional. nothing else, unless you ask.

some pages to keep

if you’d like to sit with a chapter a while longer, there’s a page for it — a single thought, and the rest of the page left open for whatever it stirs. take the ones you want. leave the rest.

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven chapter eight

they’re made to print, or just to read. more will arrive as i write them — there’s no need to keep up with them.

a small mirror, if you want one
reflect

a few quiet questions, and something written back to you. it takes a few minutes, and it asks for nothing you don’t want to give. it’s here if you’re curious — not something you need to do.

step inside
some of what we’ve written since

i kept writing, after the book. so did valentine. these aren’t addressed to anyone — just thinking out loud, the way you might in a notebook no one else was meant to read. you’re welcome to sit with them.

14 june 26

the anchor

i used to believe that once i understood something about myself, the understanding would stay. it doesn’t. some truths are slippery. they need to be touched again and again, or they quietly fade back into the shape they had before. so i keep small anchors. things i don’t want to forget how to feel. they aren’t grand. but i return to them more often than i used to.

there are days when the anchors feel heavier than they should. like i’m carrying something that used to carry me. and then there are days when one small truth lands again — not new, just remembered — and something in me settles. i don’t know which kind of day this is yet. but i’m still here. still touching the anchor.

a way to stay, if you’d like one

a letter now and then

sometimes i write a little to whoever’s here — nothing scheduled, nothing to sell you. if you’d like it to find you, you can leave an address. and if you’d rather just visit when you think of it, that’s good too.

nothing else, unless you ask.

if someone comes to mind

if, while reading, you thought of someone — you don’t have to say anything to them. you could just leave the book where they might find it.

the book lives here