February 28

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by WriteDrunk

by WriteDrunk

Dear Luke, February 28, 2014

It's been six weeks, Luke, and it's been hell without you. I miss getting lost in your eyes, pretending I can swim in the deep blue and escape the judgemental glares. The pitying words. I just want to see you, moving, blinking, laughing. When I'm with you it's like looking at a corpse and I hate it.

I'm wearing your sweatshirt. The one you died in before they revived you. It wasn't evidence since it wasn't a homicide or anything like that. It was an accident. An accident that has cost you a month of your life and God knows how much more time in the future.

Your sweatshirt is warm and oddly comforting. Though it shouldn't be, considering the love of my life died in it, but you were also saved in it. And it's grey, so I can blend in with the dull grey walls of my room. Your room. Our room. Your side of the bed doesn't smell like you anymore. It smells like me. Or nothing. Or maybe my nose got used to you not being around so I forgot your smell.

Have you noticed that I write to you on Fridays? Minus one or two times, but generally it's a Friday. I like Fridays more than any other day because it's the beginning of the weekend. I hope you wake up on a Friday. That would make them ten times better.

Luke, I miss you with such an intensity that I feel physical pain. Please, wake up. Please come back to me. You're on death's door, as am I. Like I said before. There is no me, without you.

Even though you may not believe me, I love you. A lot.

-Ashton

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-Katie♡