Dearest Christopher,
It’s been a while since my last letter reached you. I promised myself not to write for one anymore, but you know that I’ve always been an oathbreaker. So, how’s life going?
I suppose the idea of getting down on one knee in front of the sea — which used to be our sea, apparently — stays vivid in your mind. I wonder if it’s no longer an idea. I must envy the waves and the sunset for being onlookers. Jealousy kills you like an apple in your throat, don’t you know that? We’ve been friends since I can’t remember, which I wish we were not — jealousy and I.
Come to think of it, though, I have nothing left to mourn.
But Christopher, as much as it’s easy now to walk alone myself or to sleep early as I turn off the lamp, it’s an enormous denial to say I yearn for you at no time. It’s not how my fingers and yours fit the purpose of each other’s companions. Nor your hoodies on me when the world went cold. I think it’s the feeling we abandoned. The feeling that costed much pain in chest. The feeling that whispered to me about you, who perhaps missed us.
So, I wrote this to let you know that I missed you a little too much, too. Too much I can barely bear.
