Always, Marinette • adrienette au

letter 4

Dear Adrien,

This is my third time starting this letter. My words and pen keep failing me.

In a weird way, I feel complete. Addressing the letter was hard but the more ink that flows the easier this feels. I think I'm finally ready to say goodbye to you.

I know I've written to you before but this time it feels different. It feels final.

Writing letters is something I didn't think of doing but I realized how hard it would be to say goodbye. I wanted something that people could keep when they missed me. Memories tend to fade and become distorted. I didn't want that. Another more selfish part of me wanted something permanent, something other than a gravestone, something for people to hold onto to. It's a lot easier to look at this paper then the person. There's nothing holding me back from saying what I want.

I guess what I'm trying to write is everything I wish I told you or wanted to tell you. I've noticed that your visits are getting shorter and the time between them longer. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty because I know how hard this must be for you and for that I'm sorry.

First your mother and then me.

Same disease, so you must know how this will end—how I will end at least. I'm sure that's why you'll stop visiting and part of me is glad. I don't want you to see what I'll be like. I want you to remember me before all of this. So at least you'll be happy when you think of me.

So let's start before I chicken out and write pages of nothings.

1. Things will be hard. That's life. It's both beautiful and tragic. I hope when I'm gone that you find something or someone that makes you see it. It will get easier though. That's the thing about hard times they pave the way for easier ones. This darkness won't last forever—you can't make it last that long. It will eat you alive and I don't want to think of you drowning in grief.

Please don't do that to yourself.

2. You will move on. That's another part of life. Moving on is a process and I don't know how easy it will be for you but you will move on. You grow and adapt. There is so much room and time for growth and I hope you embrace it. You will grow and don't you ever feel guilty about it. Don't feel guilty about moving on or leaving me behind.

There are thousands of other things to say but I don't know how to say them. This was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. I keep trying to add something more, my mind won't let me settle on any particular thing. Apparently, I have a lot to say to you. I'm sorry that I don't have more time—more courage—to say everything I want.

I'm sorry for asking you to deliver these letters I just didn't know who else to give them to. I hope someday you'll forgive me. I know it wasn't right but assuming you've read this diary and delivered the other letters I want to sincerely thank you. It couldn't have been easy.

You can do whatever you want with this diary. You can bury it, burn it, give it away etc. The simple knowledge of this being—will soon be—yours is enough for me. Or you can keep it and read it when you want to remember me. I'm not sure which will appeal more to you at this point but you are free to do whatever you wish.

So goodbye Adrien. I'm sorry that things happened this way. If I could rewrite the stars I would but I'm afraid they don't sell cosmic pens. Things like this happen sometimes and we just have to move on.

Thank you for being in my life. You've made me so extremely happy and I like to think that I made you happy too.

There's one more thing I have to say but I don't know how so I'm just going to rip off the bandaid and say it. You've read it before but this is how I want to end this letter—I want these words to be my last words to you.

3. I love you. I love you now and I'll probably even love you after I'm gone.

Always,
Marinette.