My dearest K.

22.

26 December 2015

My dearest K.,

Today I was standing in the living room as I heard my parents having a normal conversation. My dad was sitting on the coach pointing the remote control in his hand towards the TV and my mum scrolling through her phone to find a new recipe. It was so normal... Everything seemed okay. Nobody was crying. Nobody was sighing. Nobody was looking at me pitifully. And nobody was smiling. Nobody was even moving. Everything was just...fine. Such an unnoticeable monotonous moment it was. Such a... normal daily moment it was.

And in the brief of that moment, I felt something wandering through my body... I felt the flow... the time flow. I felt the presence of such a simple moment of a normal life. I felt happy for the pure simplicity of that moment. How this simple moment was never going to be repeated. How my mum would scream and pull her hair out when she finds me breathless in my bed in a week or two. How my dad standing on that couch so peacefully would lose all his current calmness when he sees my immovable body on a piece of wooden thing like yours. How that conversation of them was going to be replaced with a deep incorruptible silence. How my days at home with my family would be over in just a week or two. How in the long future I may wander around here like a ghost and try to guess the changes that have happened. And in the very next brief of that moment, I realized time was the only thing I have ever been afraid of.

You remember how I have always been impatient to see all the pieces come together and finally understand why I went through everything I did. The pieces are coming together baby. The innocent naïve "me" is so fucking nice, making unworthy ass people a priority in my life, putting others' happiness before mine, fearing loneliness when I should have appreciated it as the prize of my freedom, always waiting for the right time to say or feel something, worrying about what other people could think of my actions only to realize in the end that no one was thinking about me in the first place... the strong, determined and loving "me" is willing to sacrifice everything for the people I love, loving people with all I have, fighting for my own identity, believing that it's better to aim high and fail spectacularly, leaving life to take my revenge so that I didn't poison my days with soreness but plant peace in my heart... the crazy "me" is a different woman each day... once full of courage, once shaking in fear... once hasty, once hesitant... insecure and determined... sweet and egoist, seething and screaming if you tried to hug me while crying, being the kind disciplined princess in public and the crazy adventurous little girl in private.

All the pieces are coming together now to create and break another imperfect person and guess what? I am not afraid at all... I am not afraid of that imperfectness because the perfect ones stay in museums and I don't like the museums' solidity. I am not afraid of leaving this world... I am leaving to find whatever helps me heal... to fall again in love with the way you love me.

I will always remember how you tried your best to help me find the quietness of my soul by sending me so many letters... each with a different question to keep me distracted from the illness psychology. I hope from the depth of my heart that my letters had the same calming effect for you as yours had for me. I hope you could feel the sincerity that turned the words into emotions.

This is my last letter to you sweetheart... don't get anxious, but the weight of the pen in my hand has started to feel so much for my shaking hands and... I can't write... not anymore. Don't be terrified of this being the end of ours... you know true loves never have a happy end, because ... they never end.

Forever yours,

D.