to each other. This, like all the other letters since, is just for me. But I wish I could send it to you, just like the last kiss I wish I could have given you before we parted ways. That Monday evening when you came into my office and said you were leaving, I was relieved. If I knew it was the last time I’d see you, I’d have said something different.
I love you.
Or at least I would have kissed you one last time.
Now that it’s all over, I hope you remember me curled up against your body at night, listening to the sound of your heartbeat and counting along with you. Or remember me laughing at every silly joke you ever made because when I laughed, your face brightened. Or remember me scared but trusting that you would make everything better because you were right by my side.
Or remember the times I was happy because they were real. You made me so happy. Don’t forget my flaws, because even when they drove you insane, they’re a part of who I was, who I am. Please, remember our first kiss and the first time I came undone at your hands. I gave you a little piece of myself, and it will forever belong to you.
Stay true to your dreams and your future. That’s what I’m holding onto right now. Remembering the beginning, our first meeting, and every trip we took thereafter because those were the best moments of my life. Just don’t remember the ending. It’s scary and painful. Every night I rub oils on the scars hoping that they’ll fade.
But those oils I apply every night will never fade the scars I carry in my heart. It scares me that no one will ever accept me the way I am—that you never did either. Nightly, I pray that I’ll find someone who’ll love me—scars, nightmares, and all of it. I pray that you find someone too. Be happy, you deserve it.
Love,
Abby
— — —
My heart beats fast as I read the letter, and I wish I had time to read the others. I’m curious to find out when she stopped writing or if she still writes to me. I continue doing it, almost nightly. Mostly when I’m missing her. They’re just for me. I don’t plan on sending any of them. I’ve saved all of them throughout the years. Most of the old ones don’t even make sense, and my handwriting is shitty
Doubt cripples me as I realize what I just did by reading something she safeguarded.
Was it wrong to read it even though it was addressed to me?
I wouldn’t mind if she read what I wrote. It would be hard for her to understand them; God knows I can barely make sense out of them. Without overthinking it, I set the pad back in the drawer and start cooking. I hurry to prepare some eggs and pour orange juice while I make another pot of coffee.
“Everything alright?”
“I started drinking a lot after what happened to you,” I confess without any prompting. “After you went to rehab, I never had a sober day if I could help it. I did everything drunk. Except for driving. Aaron, my driver, was there all the time. I never had less than two full bottles of scotch. I never described myself as an alcoholic. I swore I could quit anytime if I wanted to.”
Those were dark times. I went days without knowing how I’d arrived at my office or gotten home and sat days on my couch drinking bottles of scotch.
“It’s easier to numb the memories,” I continue. “I have a hard time remembering what happened back then. The alcohol shut down the voices and alleviated the pain. It was easier than confronting what I was going through.”
This confession is harder than I thought it’d be, but precisely what I’ve been needing. “It might not seem like it affected me, but fuck if it didn’t hurt to learn what they’d done to you and I couldn’t do anything to save you. You’re precious to me, and the thought of anyone hurting you drove me crazy. Then, under my own nose, Shaun took you and hurt you, again. You weren’t here to …”
“Fix?” she prompts as I trail my gaze.
“Yeah, I needed to put you back together because if not, I’d have to admit that I was falling apart. Most days I pretended that I was fine. People either believed me or decided to ignore