You found me.

Through all of the pain, the terror, the lies and the wish to just fall down, close your eyes and never have to face this nightmare again, you found me.

Lying in a helpless heap on the ground, groaning out in pain. … Not exactly the most manly position, I admit it. But you helped me.

And we faced the horrors of a lonely artist's world.

A world filled with depression and sick delight.

A world where a life is no more important than a mere rose.

Where you could be killed by a game of 'Loves Me, Loves Me Not.'

… I was so afraid, Ib.

Not of the dolls, or Mary, or the spitting paintings.

Well maybe I was a little scared.

But I was so afraid.

Afraid of losing you.

… It sounds a bit foolish of me, doesn't it? We'd only known each other for a day, yet I couldn't bear to even let go of your hand.

I can't help it…

But…

This note… This note is just to tell you,

Thank you.

Thank you, Ib