Willow

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My Alfie,

Life without you remains difficult. It's your birthday next week. It's so unimaginably tragic that you never saw your eighteenth birthday. Jacob contacted me out of the blue yesterday, to suggest that we meet up and have a cigarette in your honour. He still has the rest of that packet of American Spirit, which surprised me. I thought he would have smoked them all by now. He seems to have gone off the rails somewhat. I think we all have.

Forgive me, Alfie, I'm distracted. I tried to clear my mind before writing this letter to you, but it's impossible. Finn told me it wouldn't hurt to take a little bit of time out, but it's already been two weeks since I wrote to you last. We're in November now. September seems to have flown by, and yet at times it felt like it was crawling along. Finn hasn't written to you for a while either. He's sorry, he's just so busy with school now – we both are – and there's so much going on.

Alfie, I've started this letter to you a thousand times over and it never feels right. That's why it's taken so long for me to write again. I can think of a million words, and none of them are right. What I've done isn't right. Finn keeps telling me it isn't wrong, that we've done nothing wrong, but it is. It must be, because I feel awful.

I don't have a beautiful, prosaic way of saying this. The words are as ugly as the actions.

Alfie, I kissed Finn.

I'm so sorry.

Willow

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