Max

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Dear Alfie,

My hands are shaking.

Our English homework this week is to write a letter. It seems a slightly odd assignment – I'd have thought we'd be revising the set texts for the exam almost constantly by now – but it makes a nice break from trying to decipher themes of betrayal in Wuthering Heights (God, I hate that book), so I'm not complaining.

I couldn't decide who to write a letter to; especially as Mrs Newton wants it to be a letter with a confession, and there's no-one I really have anything to confess to. That's when I remembered that I've been writing letters to you for the last five months, and there's plenty I could confess to you. Mrs Newton is the only one who's going to read it, and she likes me, so I hope you don't mind me using you for my homework.

That's a daft thing to say, isn't it? Of course you aren't going to tell me if you mind or not. Maybe writing this letter to you is a mistake after all; it could be a one-way ticket back to bereavement counselling if Mrs Newton thinks I'm in denial about your death.

I'll let you know how it goes,

Max

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