After You

Willow

My Dearest Alfie,

Today marks three weeks since you left us, ten days since your funeral, and five days since we returned to school without you. The corridors are filled with people, yet they seem empty without you. Everything seems empty without you.

These letters were the suggestion of the bereavement counsellor, and I think it's a wonderful idea. At first, I couldn't bear the idea of going on without you. To many, it will seem idiotic – to have considered throwing my own life away over the loss of a teenage boyfriend – but you were so much more than that to me. We were in love; a love too deep and strong for others to understand. You are a part of me, and I am a part of you, and part of me is now gone.

Through these letters, I can feel you with me again. To write to you in the same easy way I always did; as though the conversation will begin to flow at any moment, feels like coming home from the cold and retreating under a warm blanket. That's how I used to describe your embrace; like the comfort of a duvet after a year in the Arctic. Your death has plunged me into a tundra, and only these letters can offer the solace your arms once did.

I have so many questions, Alfie. There are so many things I could ask, but none of them feel pertinent. This is the only way I can contact you, and though it seems silly, I worry that if I ask too many questions, this opportunity will be taken away from me. I am not foolish enough to imagine that you might reply; I'm not completely in denial. That stage of grief came to an end at your funeral. This feels like more than an outlet for my feelings, which is what I believe the bereavement counsellor was encouraging. It feels like a way of being with you again.

You and I were always too old for this world, I thought. The way we spoke, the way we moved; as though at a slower pace than everyone else. Everything about us – our tastes, our attitudes, our conversations – belonged to a different time. You felt we should have been born in the 1920s; I rather preferred the notion of us as two star-crossed lovers befitting a Bronte novel. I was the Catherine to your Heathcliff; the Daisy to your Gatsby. Perhaps, like all good love stories, ours was doomed to a tragic end.

Your funeral was beautiful. You would have loved it; it was so utterly you. Your parents asked me for help. They said I knew you best. When your elderly relatives raised their eyebrows at the music, it was the first time I'd smiled since I found out. I don't know if they were expecting dirge-like hymns, but they certainly looked surprised when they were listening to These New Puritans as opposed to All Things Bright and Beautiful. You wore the battered old Converse you called 'ol' faithfuls'; the aviator jacket we found in my dad's attic two years ago and he said you could keep, and we even found the glasses you lost last summer. You aren't wearing them – your parents said you never looked like you when you had glasses on – but they're tucked up next to you.

Jacob helped me to order a pack of American Spirit online, and I slipped one into the pocket of your jacket when your parents weren't looking. I doubt they would have approved of you being cremated with a cigarette in your pocket, but after all you said – all the times you told me that you wanted your first cigarette to be one of quality, and one that you'd legally bought for yourself – I couldn't allow you to leave without one. I told Jacob how tragic it seemed that you never actually had the opportunity to smoke one, until he pointed out that – by virtue of your cremation – you technically were. It was your final act of rebellion, I'd like to think.

Going back to school without you was unbearable, Alf. Everyone was so sympathetic. As soon as I walked through the door, I was bombarded with hugs and hands to hold, which I'm immeasurably grateful for. I knew the first day back would be hard, and I spent much of it in tears. The love for you in each and every person there was palpable. Some of them came to your funeral, but it was a beautifully intimate occasion. The real, public grieving came on the first day back at school, as it started to sink in for everyone. Mrs Newton started crying when she saw your empty chair, and then I started crying again, and before long, it felt like the entire classroom was a pathetic puddle of tears. I presume that's when the teachers decided that a bereavement counsellor would be a wise idea.

She's lovely. Her name is Bernadette Linton, but she told me to call her Bernie. She wanted to hear all about you, and it was wonderful to be able to tell the story of how we met to someone who hasn't heard it all a million times before. Bernie listened so intently; I could tell that she really understood how much you meant to me. How much we meant to each other. She suggested that writing to you might help me to tie up any loose ends I felt there were; anything I'd left unsaid.

I told her I've always been an open book. There are no secrets between us. I told her that's what you always used to say. You'd press your lips against my forehead, and I'd feel the warmth of your breath against my skin as you whispered "we're a pair of open books, darling". In a library of dusty tomes that hadn't been opened in years, we stood out. We were too vibrant; too alive to be anything but together. We belonged.

You always had a much better way with words than I did. I tried my hardest to emulate you, and I never really came close. Mrs Newton adored you. Your fiction pieces would always be handed back covered in comments about your "silky alliteration" and "technicolour imagery". Meanwhile, I'd get remarks like "Did you eat a thesaurus for breakfast?" and "A little too try-hard". No matter how many books I read, I could never conjure up stunning phrases out of nothing. For you, it was as simple as breathing. Your words belonged in revered novels, or coming from the mouths of beloved public speakers. Mine belong in the caption of an Instagram post about a multi-coloured frappuccino.

This is only supposed to be a one-off thing, for Bernie to read and to help her work out how best to support us, but honestly, writing to you has been so liberating, Alfie. You can't imagine how isolated I've felt in the last three weeks. It's as though, even when I'm surrounded by people, I'm still shouting to an empty room. Everybody wants to be there, but no-one understands. No-one could ever understand what we had together. A love so intense at the age of seventeen was sure to last forever, and tragedy has taken you away from me.

Sometimes I try to imagine myself as the heroine of a tragic love story, but it seems futile. This isn't a book I can put down, or a dream I can wake up from. My Heathcliff is gone, and I am alone.

Love always,

Your Willow.