𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑

37

Every letter was finally finished. I leaned back in my chair, staring at the stack of envelopes in front of me. Each one was neatly labeled, the names of the people I loved scrawled across the front in my handwriting—handwriting that had grown shakier with each passing letter.

Forty pages minimum. That's how much I ended up writing for each one. I never thought I'd have so much to say. I was never much of a writer, never one for spilling my emotions onto paper. But now, it felt like there was no other choice. These letters were all I had left to give them, my last chance to explain, to apologize, to say the things I never had the courage to say out loud.

I picked up the letter on top, the one for Theo. My brother. I felt a pang in my chest as I thought about him, about the way his eyes always light up when he saw me, the way he always tried to protect me even when he could barely walk. I wrote to him about our childhood, the memories he may not of been old enough to remember, memories that still made me smile despite everything. I told him how much I loved him, how I was sorry for leaving him alone. I wrote that it wasn't his fault, that nothing that happened was ever his fault. I needed him to know that, to believe it with everything in him. I needed him to understand that even when he gets old, he was never to blame. He is a child after all.

In the letter, I gave him instructions too—on how to move on, how to live his life after I was gone. I didn't want him to be stuck in the past, drowning in guilt or sadness. I wanted him to be free, to live the life he deserved. I even included some advice, the kind of advice I wish I could have given him in person, things I'd learned too late. I told him to follow his dreams, to never settle, to find love and hold onto it with everything he had. I wrote about all the things I wanted for him, all the things I'd never get to see.

And then there were the pictures. I spent hours going through old albums, picking out the ones that meant the most to me. There were pictures of us as kids, playing in the backyard, me grinning with missing teeth, and him in a bassinet. There were pictures from holidays, birthdays, moments that felt so small at the time but were everything to me now. I wanted him to have those memories, to hold onto them when I was gone. I slipped them into the envelope with the letter, sealing it shut before I could change my mind.

I reached for the next letter, this one for Lucas. My hands trembled as I picked it up, the weight of it heavy in a way that had nothing to do with the paper. This letter was the hardest to write, the words sticking in my throat every time I tried to put them down. But I had to do it. I had to tell him how I felt, how much I loved him even though I'd never said it out loud. I told him I was sorry for leaving, for not being brave enough to stay. I wrote about the moments we shared, the times when I felt like he was the only person who really saw me, even when I was hiding from the world.

I wrote about the pain too, the numbness that had taken over my life, the darkness that I couldn't escape. I told him that it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could have done to save me. I needed him to know that he wasn't responsible for my choices, that he had been the only light in my life when everything else was falling apart. Even when he had left me. I told him to move on, to find happiness even if it wasn't with me. I wanted him to be happy, to find the peace that I never could.

Each letter was like that—filled with memories, apologies, instructions on how to move on. I wrote to Chloe, Bella, Jayden, and Travis. I told them how much they meant to me, how much I loved them even when I couldn't show it. I wrote down all the things I wish I could have said in person, all the things I never had the courage to say. I wanted them to know that they were my family, that they would always be my family no matter what happened.

I wrote to my mother. I explained that I was sorry, that all her pain and suffering was for nothing but that I love her, even if I spent seventeen years and six months hating her. I wrote down memories, I wrote down my gratitude and everything I could think of to write. I wanted her to move on.

I made sure to assure them that nothing was their fault. I didn't want them to carry the weight of my decisions, to feel like they could have done something to change the outcome. I told them that I was at peace with my choice, that I was ready for the end. I wanted them to remember the good times, the times when we were all happy, when it felt like the world was full of possibilities.

The numbness was still there, wrapping around me like a blanket, but there was a calmness too. A strange sense of peace that came from knowing that I'd said everything I needed to say. There was nothing left unsaid, no more secrets, no more lies. Just the truth, laid out on paper for them to find when I was gone.

I sealed the last envelope, pressing it closed with a finality that made my heart ache. I didn't cry. I couldn't. The numbness was too strong, too all-encompassing. But that was okay. I didn't need to cry. I didn't need to feel anything at all.

I stood up, gathering the letters into a neat stack. I had done what I needed to do. I had said my goodbyes, made my peace with the world. All that was left now was to wait. Wait for the end that I knew was coming, the end that I had chosen. And as I looked at the letters one last time, I felt a strange sense of relief. It was over. All of it.

And I was ready.