Luke said I should try this. Like writing a letter I can never send will help somehow. But I'm shit out of options. I don't want to do this anymore, Peyton. I don't want to do anything, ever. Everything is just so bright and loud and hard. And it hurts just to breathe. Every day, every minute, every second that goes by hurts a little more. And the days are long and I am so tired. I keep asking why. Who I am asking, I'm not sure. God? Myself? You? Who knows? I don't. Why did you have to leave me like you did? Why did you have to leave me at all? Why is it that we couldn't just be happy? Why is it that just when everything starts getting good again, it all just goes to hell?
I don't like this. I hate it, in fact. I hate that every blonde head I see reminds me of yours. I hate that I can't go into the music store because I start crying when I hear your songs, our songs. Do you remember that time we danced in the rain? We found an old record of your mom's and we played that song over and over even after the sky opened up and threatened to drown us.
And it hurts so much. I didn't know a human being was capable of withstanding so much pain without actually dying. And I want to sometimes, most of the time, because I don't want to be anywhere you aren't. But I promised you, baby, and I don't go back on my word. You want me to live without you? Fine. You want me to be happy about it? Take a number.
was always you and me in the beginning. When you moved here and a
nine-year-old Nathan and Tim made fun of you, I kicked them in the
shins, hard. And you looked at me through long wet lashes and asked
who I was. All I said was your new best friend.
I was yours from the start. All those guys? Distraction, something to kill time with, get off with. I never really cared about them, except for one, but we both know how well that turned out, don't we? I'm not bitter, though. Not about that anyway. Water over the bridge, or under it, whatever.
Oh, Blondie, you have no idea how much I miss you. It's been eight weeks already and I can't imagine living another eighty years like this. Nobody loves you like I do. And I do. So much. I don't want anyone else. I may have had a guy-a-week habit before you, but I'm a one-woman girl, and you're it for me.
I like sleeping, drinking's good too, that's pretty much all I do now. Except for the nights I like awake, out of tears, out of vodka, and groping at the empty space in the bed beside me. I always slept better with you, P. Sawyer. Everything was better when you were next to me. And Disney lied, you know; his wasn't the happiest place on earth. Your arms, your lips were. And it's when I sleep that I'm in your arms, that I can taste your lips again.
Some nights are better than others. There are the dreams when it's me and you on a beach or in the woods or in you room or in the dark . It doesn't matter, it's all the same. You're holding me and I'm all dimples and sparkling eyes. And you're sighing in my ear, murmuring I love yous into my hair, pressing kisses here, there, and everywhere. But the bad dreams aren't few or far between. I see it again and again. I can hear steel tearing, glass smashing, bones breaking. And I try to get you out but I can't. You're stuck and bleeding and my arm is broken, it won't move like I want it to. And there's screaming and crying and I'm sorry, Peyton, I can't reach.
But you know, you were there. I don't need to write it because I'm never going to forget it. You were so sad when you knew it was over. You were trying to talk, whispering words I wouldn't let myself hear because anything you could've said would have sounded like Goodbye. And I didn't want to say goodbye. But I'm readier now. So goodbye, Peyt. Just promise me something? We'll be together again. Then we will be forever. Just wait for me, okay? Watch over me, maybe send a couple more of those good dreams my way. Save me a seat and tell the big guy I said hi. I'll see you soon, love.
Yours truly, absolutely, and forever,