On her mother's death anniversary, I bring the darkest red roses I can find. When I walk into her room, there's a photograph in her hand and tears are slowly rolling down her cheeks.
"I'm going to die," she says. "I'm going to die like my mother."
I put the flowers down and walk to her.
"I miss her and I never even knew her." She laughs mirthlessly. "When I die, do you think I'll see her?"
"You won't die," I say.
She shakes her head. "Don't lie to me."
"Yes, you are," she argues. "They think I'll die soon. I know they do."
"Well I think you're going to survive-"
"Well, then you better start thinking otherwise."
YOU ARE READING
letters
Romansathey were five when they started writing. they were seventeen when they stopped. he was eighteen when he read her letters. he was nineteen when everything fell apart. +cover creds to abhaya ♥︎
