Dear Jillian

1.

The first letter to Holtzmann came easy to Erin.

The words just flowed.

The pen not losing contact with the paper as she continued to let the words appear in front of her.

She had wanted to write on her laptop, but somehow using pen and paper was more cathartic, less like her reports, less clinical.

Hand writing words seemed much more meaningful.

Putting words to paper....putting her feelings on paper.

Writing sentences seemed a little easier than saying some things...

saying those things...saying them out loud.

Telling her she missed her.

Telling her she needed her.

Telling her just to heal.

Telling her she was sorry.  Sorry she didn't do enough. Sorry she froze. 

Sorry.

Sorry, sorry sorry.

Erin had so many thoughts, so many emotions. All of them just swirling. Swirling into thoughts, into physical feelings, emotions and she needed to process them. Process the feelings that she hesitated to bring up with her girlfriend. She wasn't ready for it, she knew Holtz wasn't either.

She lost count of the amount of nights she slid quietly out of their bed, sobbing softly to herself on the couch. Her tears not even slowing until the early hours of the morning. Erin embracing them because it was the only time she let herself grieve, let herself mourn. It was a release.  

The evenings she spent at the Firehouse before heading home, always finding she was opening the door to the roof before leaving. Always only planning on spending a moment there, to clear her head, empty it, have some sort of normality, even if it was only temporary. Sometimes that moment turning into an hour, or two. The Firehouse roof seemed to be the only familiarity to her. Looking out into the glistening lights of the big city, the city that continued living and moving forward, while she felt she had stopped, halted. Erin almost felt stuck. Unsure she would ever continue forward, would she see a future. Unsure any of them could ever move forward. Her mind wandered to the past, and how a split second had changed everything.

 And Erin wasn't sure it would ever be the same. 

Would they ever return to even an echo of normal.

Holtzmann had become almost a shell of a person. She was quieter. Her personality was softer, as though she had lost her spark. There was no more excited stories, silly jokes or flirty comments. Holtz still showered Erin with compliments and love but it wasn't the same. She still smiled, but not with her being, not with her soul. Not anymore.

Things were different.

Work was different.

The Ghostbusters were different.

 
The air surrounding them all felt thick, tense. Conversation was small, short, abrupt and Erin felt that sometimes she spoke just to cut through the air, to let the others know that she was there, that all hope wasn't lost. Patty wasn't as bubbly or loud anymore, her laughter was more gentle, more polite and Erin missed her usual robust and smile inducing humour. Abby always looked as though she was about to cry, or she had been crying, but she would just smile bravely and continue her work.

Everything was different.
Everyone was different.

They were just existing now, going through the motions, everything was routine.