Camille, I love you. I hope my books sell. I hope I don’t go mad again. I’m so happy to have met you, known you and loved you. I’m so happy that I’m not good at parties. I’m so happy that I don’t go to parties. I’m so happy that a girl like you exists who’s also introverted, kind and needy and I can now laugh at how lonely and miserable I felt last summer. I’m so happy that I’m still alive and every morning I take a deep breath thinking: you are the rest of my fucked up life.