There is one letter for each year, and they are all addressed to me.
They start silly. When she was five, she ate all the sugar cookies on her birthday. When she was six, she was mad at me for making her play pin the tail of the donkey.
And then I left, and she missed me.
I came back; she was happy our friendship was the same.
My father died; she felt pity for me.
I pushed her away; she hated me.
She was insecure about herself. She changed herself for me.
She thought she liked me.
She knew she liked me.
She accepted that she loves me.
She knew she was dying.
She wanted to spend her last month with me.
She died.
And with her, she took a part of me.
YOU ARE READING
letters
Romancethey 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 ♥︎
