Before I Forget

Something Worth Living For

"Dearest Sky,

I must admit that I find writing a letter instead of a text message, somewhat of a challenge.

Not knowing what you think when you read this, having to wait for your response for days, weeks, instead of mere moments— Or am I assuming too much, thinking that you will even write me back?

You have no reason to do so. I wouldn't blame you if you hated me.

I wish you are alright, but I fear that you are suffering. I am tormented by the thought that you suffer and there is nothing I can do to help you. I can't come to you and take care of you, read to you, as you did when I was in pain. I can't offer you anything - and I can't stop thinking about how alone you must feel, how frightened.

I wonder how much I dare say. Ink on paper is eternal. What if this letter falls into the wrong hands? What if your father opens it and reads these words? Will I only cause you more problems?

I wonder if I dare to write about how much I miss you. How much I miss your smile. How much I miss feeling your lips against mine, your body on the bed in my arms when we are kissing. I cannot bear the thought that it might never happen again. I miss everything about you, your laughter, your voice, the color of your hair - my world is suddenly empty, so dark, now that you're not in it.

But I can only blame myself. I know this is my fault, and I am not afraid to write it, even if someone else might read these words. Why should I care what the rest of the world thinks, when your opinion of me is the only one that matters?

I can only hope you'll forgive me. I have so many regrets, but the biggest one is how I've treated you.

I wish we'd met under different circumstances. I cannot stop thinking about that night in my backyard, and by God, I wish I had never said or done the things that I did. I was selfish, and I was cruel and I know it. What you are going through now is my fault, and that thought pains me like nothing else.

I think about you all the time.

Are you thinking about me at all?

Please, if you can, write to me.

Yours,

Cody"

"That sounds like a love letter," said Luke, when Sky stopped reading and put down the sheet of paper filled with Cody's graceful, old-fashioned handwriting.

She lay on the bed on her back, whereas Luke sat on the floor, painting his toenails with a shocking shade of neon yellow that matched his hair. It was late already, past dinner time, and there were no more activities for the day, so they were hanging out in her room - a small and simple room, with pale green walls, a bed, a desk, and a chest of drawers for her clothes. There were no curtains, no paintings on the wall - but Sky had asked for a vase and picked some flowers from the garden to give the room some warmth. It did little good - this still didn't feel like home, but a hospital.

"Come on, he doesn't say the word love once," Sky sighed and glanced at Luke.

"No, but he says it in every other word I can imagine."

Sky bit her lip and frowned. The letter was no doubt emotional. Cody missed her, desperately, so it would seem. But she missed him too - and it didn't mean she was in love with him. She missed the connection they had, the passion, the way she felt alive when he touched her, like there was fire in her veins. She knew he shared that feeling, but love? He had never even hinted that he might feel that way about her, and she had always brushed it off as ridiculous, but now—