Dear Harry

Letter one

Dear Harry,
My name is Florence O'Connel, I'm turning eighteen in two weeks.
One year ago I was diagnosed with depression. My dad seemed so surprised when he found out, but he should've realized. If he was a good parent he should've noticed that I don't have any friends, he should've wondered why I always turn the shower on when I'm in the bathroom, and he should've questioned why I wore sweaters all summer when it was boiling hot.

But he didn't. I guess I shouldn't blame him though. He was working so hard to get some money for us. Most of our money went to my mom's medicine and hospitalbill, so after she died he worked his ass off to even be able to put food on the table. He didn't have the time to notice these things. I'm just being selfish. Again.

Today my biology teacher talked about how you shouldn't keep your feelings all bottled up. She told us that whenever something was bothering her or she had to get something off her chest she would always write a letter to someone who means a lot to her. She said that it was a way of letting the feelings out when you don't want to actually talk about them. I liked the idea, so here I am writing you a letter. My teacher said that she never actually sends them, but I think I will. I know it's crazy since you're never going to read them, but I don't think I'll feel better if I don't know that there's a tiny chance you will. It's crazy, I know.

I love you so much, Harry.

Love, Florence.