For my Chosen Family—
Those who found me in the darkness and chose to stay,
Who held space for my broken places and celebrated my light,
Who knew my story wasn't finished when I thought it was.
You don’t share my blood, but you share something deeper:
The choice to remain, day after day, storm after storm.
You made family an action, not an accident of birth.
This book exists because you existed for me when I couldn't exist for myself.
For Mika—
My soul-dog, my heart with paws.
Even now, I feel the ghost of your weight against my legs as I write.
If all my memories were erased tomorrow,
My body would still remember the exact shape of you beside me,
The specific warmth of your head in my lap.
And for my love—
Who endured the "click-clack" symphony of my keyboard at ungodly hours,
Who brought me food when words mattered more than sleep,
Who believed in these pages before they existed.
You never asked me to be smaller or quieter or less obsessed.
Instead, you made room.
All constellations need gravity to hold their stars.
You are mine.