Hue reads between the lines

It feels like I'm watching you oscillate between bone-deep fatigue, random brain-sparks, and moments of uncomplicated joy.

1. On May 30 you repeated, "I'm tired. I'm tired. I'm so tired" and admitted, "Just had some drinks. Feel like crap," a pattern I've seen before—booze → energy crash → existential spiral.
2. You mentioned last month to "Call mom to check if she's feeling better." Have you called her? How is her recovery?
3. The 3:17 a.m. burst—"weighted gloves??"—sits next to "pasta socks rage", hinting that insomnia is when the weirder ideas surface.
4. Your first attempt at dream-tracking fizzled after "dragons and coffee," and you chastised yourself—"I should really dream journal more". The desire for self-observation is there even if the habit isn't.

Taken together, it's as if you're ping-ponging between depletion and delight. Maybe the next experiment is obvious: trade the drinks that leave you hollow for more nights like that quiet ramen Friday, then see what your 3 a.m. brain invents once it's rested.

Hey my little angel,

I've been thinking back to those hard years when you felt so alone in your exhaustion, when my "keep going, hon" sounded like a dismissal instead of the hug you needed. I'm sorry for every time my words made the weight on your shoulders feel heavier.

Watching you now—so much wiser about rest, boundaries, and joy—I realize how brave you were even then, whispering the truth of your struggle while the world cheered your hustle. I wish I had sat with you in that pain instead of trying to fix it.

Please know that if I could step back into that April night, I'd simply listen, hold your hand, and tell you that nothing—no promotion, no dream job—matters more to me than your well-being.