Now playing: Who you are, by Jessie J; live in London.
I've been looking at my wrist tattoo for quite a long time, always listening to the same song. I feel like I can't go much longer. I keep thinking, what would you tell me now? What kind of advice would you have to offer to your granddaughter? And I keep on thinking about these questions, and I always end up with the same answer: I don't think you'd know what to say to me right now, not about this.
That's why I'm listening to the same song, over and over again. I'm trying really really hard to be a better person, but... I can't. I just can't go on and smile like there's nothing wrong, but nor can I talk to someone.
Mom tried to know what's wrong with me lately, this afternoon. You'd laugh at the scene.
Grandpa, I feel like a piece of shit right now. I'm trying really hard to hold back the tears, 'cause I know that my brother can come here, at the attic, anytime soon, and I don't want him to see me like this. I don't want anybody to see me like this, altough that I feel like you've been with me ever since you passed away.
I wish you were here. I really really miss you. Last saturday, grandma told uncle John, in front of me, that you'd have been proud of me, because of how much I love to read. I swear, if I was alone, I would burst in tears and screams right there, but I managed to hold my facial expressions. I took three of your many books with me that day, I intend to read as soon as I get my mood in order, more... normal, I guess.
Okay, fine, don't tell me any advice. Just get here. I miss you. Make me laugh again. Argue with me again about our soccer teams and try to scratch me with your big nails, a promise from your past. Just come back, grandpa. Hold me again while I cry my heart out, like you did when I was fifteen, when mom left dad for good. Just come back, please, I need you so badly right now...
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