After You

Willow

My beloved Alfie,

My last letter was finally deemed good enough by Bernie, after several careful rewrites and drafts, so technically I don't need to write these letters any more. I'd never contemplate stopping, though. They are my only method of communicating with you, and though it is so tragically one-sided, I feel so close to you. I fear that soon, these letters will be all I have that allows me to believe, for one blissful second, that you are still here with me. Your hoodies are starting to lose your scent. When I sleep with them at night, I bury my nose deeper and deeper into the material, praying for just one moment of you.

You should be so proud of Finn. He truly is the best friend you could have wished for. I know you would have wanted him to take care of me, and he is doing so well. He is so completely selfless, placing his own needs second. I do worry about him, but he tells me not to, because he is fine as long as I am fine. He is one of the few people I can still talk to about you.

It feels as if everyone at school is forgetting about you and carrying on with their lives. I know that carrying on is essential, and we can't just bury our heads in the sand and refuse to live, but at times it feels that people are losing patience and sympathy. I don't want people's sympathy, but sometimes I still cry in class, and instead of looking concerned and ushering me out of the room for a break, the teachers roll their eyes and suggest I go to the toilet if I need privacy. The girls from Drama class don't even pretend to be sympathetic any more; they just look at each other and carry on talking like I haven't even mentioned you.

It's only been six weeks. How am I supposed to get over the love of my life in just six weeks? It isn't even two months. My parents tell me to take all the time I need, and that they won't lose patience, but Finn is the only one I can completely trust to still listen to me when I need to speak about you. He doesn't say much – I think he worries about becoming emotional in front of me – but he listens.

When I am alone, I try to find solace in books. Not my old favourites; yours. I can't read mine. I managed four pages of Wuthering Heights before dissolving into tears. You left your copy of The Picture of Dorian Grey at my house the last time you visited. I'd like to think that was deliberate; that you wanted me to read that book. You were forever trying to persuade me to read Oscar Wilde. I can't say he'll ever be one of my favourite authors, but as I read, I could imagine you curled up in your reading nook, your fingers tracing the lines as your hands desperately try to keep the spine together. I can tell it's your favourite book – while most of them are worn, Dorian Grey has been loved to the point of near-destruction.

That's how I feel sometimes.

Thankfully, Bernie didn't linger too long on what I said in my last letter, about wanting to join you. She simply told me that such thoughts are normal after losing a loved one, and gave me some telephone numbers to call in case I feel the same again.

Still, it made me think. We associate suicide with sadness. When I think of you in that moment before, I think of you lost in the darkness, with two options – to allow the darkness to envelop you, or to search for the light. You would not have allowed the darkness to take you quietly, I know that much. All I can imagine is that you allowed yourself one brief moment of solace; one small respite from searching for the light – and in that second, the darkness overwhelmed you.

When those thoughts crept into my head, there was no darkness. There was no light to search for. There was only you, or a life without you. Would that be a suicide born of sadness? Would it be born of fear, or of isolation? No, I think it would be of love.

Which is how I resisted. The natural ending for love is not death, and certainly not death at my own hands. I allowed myself to romanticise suicide, and it nearly killed me.

Like Dorian Grey, I have been loved to the point of near-destruction. Now I need to find a way to hold myself together.

Your Willow