I’ve started this letter about a thousand times. That’s an exaggeration of course. You’ve only been gone for eighty-eight days, so that would imply that I’ve started this letter at least eleven times a day—and the truth is that there are some days that I don’t even want to write to you. I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of even thinking of you fondly. Part of me might still be mad.
Other days I didn’t try because—why bother? I had nowhere to send you a letter. I don’t even really know what I want to say to you. And—well, let’s call a spade a spade, I don’t even know if you are actually alive. And that feels shitty. To be writing to you and wondering if I would have a better chance of reaching you by praying.
And even if I could reach you, if you’d left me a mailing address or whatever—what could I say? I’m sorry we scared you away? I’m sorry that life was hard? I’ll try to make things better? I could make you all kinds of promises, but we would both know that it’s not entirely in my power to make those promises come true. Even if you did come home, how long would it take for all of us to fall back into those old familiar patterns again? How long until we’re in the exact same position that we used to be in? And how long after that would you run again?
You were my best friend. I miss you. I—God. I’m practically writing a letter to an imaginary person at this point…This is pointless—