Oh Julia. Poor, sweet, innocent, Julia. What's become of you, I'll never know. When you left me, you were crying and wanting freedom.
I know it was what was best, so I let you go. Now where are you? Gone; I don't know. You left your things with me, but you'll never come back for them.
Julia, do you know how hard it was on me to have let you leave? Horribly hard. Difficult and painful on both parts, but it was for the best. You told me you loved me before you left. I believed you then, but now I'm unsure.
I know at some point we did both love each other equally. Why else would you hold my hands so tenderly, so tightly, as if your life depended on it? As if you'd disappear if you let go?
Now as time passes, I can only see your eyes and the pain they held as you disappeared, slipped from my grasp.
YOU ARE READING
Letters Of The Unstable
Short StoryCrooked people, minds, and narratives- that's what these letters are made of, I suppose
