I’ve spent the past hour trying to decide how to open this letter, but nothing feels right. So I’ll forgo any formal salutations for now.

In my mind, you remain a face without a name. A name without a face. You just exist—or try to.

Everything reminds me of you. The way Ed Sheeran sings the song I know was written about us. The smell of burning hamburgers on a scorching hot grill—they were always your favorite. The silken touch of the blanket as I wrap it around myself after nightmares of you invaded my mind, rouse me from a fitful sleep. All of which sucks when you’re trying to forget.

My boss asked me today how you’re doing. I said fine. I haven’t told her, yet. Probably never will. I’ve decided it’s not really lying if you’re omitting the truth. So I smile, nod, and hope she’ll get the picture.

I can’t bring myself to tell my mother. Although I suspect she suspects. I mean, when you’ve spent every single day with someone for the past three years, and they’re suddenly not there, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Roscoe misses you so much. He waits by the door, tail thumping relentlessly, reverberating through my brain, the empty thuds echoing like long-lost memories. Memories of us. Things I tell myself I want to forget, but this time I know I’m lying. I tell Roscoe you’re not coming back, to which he replies by laying his big block head on his paws as he continuously stares at the door, hoping you’ll decide to come back.

He’s not the only one.

I wish you’d come back and give me some damn answers. I think after devoting every fiber of my being to you for three years, I deserve to know.

Everyone says life isn’t fair, and I know this to be true. But it doesn’t mean I have to accept it.

Every time I close my eyes, I see you. You with her, your lips locked together in desperation, neither of you coming up for air, as if every breath isn’t vital to your existence. That image remains burned into my brain, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t flick the ashes away.

So I hope you’re both happy. After all, your happiness was always all that mattered.







  1. A lovely employment of sous rature. The words are under erasure because they’re inaccurate, but they remain because there are no better words–they’re simultaneously true and false (as the emotions they represent). Bittersweet and beautiful.

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