Page 112 of Dear Rosie

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I pull in a deep breath.

My best friend writing me because she wanted a fucking hug.

But I wasn’t there.

My eyes trail over the rest of the folded letters.

They have to be something else.

A collection of letters from something else.

But thelonger I stare, the worse I feel.

And I need to know.

I pull out the next folded piece of paper.

And when I open it, I feel the weight of it on my sternum.

It’s to me.

I glance at the box, and I know.

All these letters are to me.

Dear Nathan,

I know I can’t send you this letter. But I can’t stop myself from writing it.

I miss you a lot.

Like so much.

And I keep wondering if you miss me too.

Love,

Rosie

I suck in a breath.

I missed her too.

I’d missed her so fucking much, and I couldn’t tell her.

Didn’t tell her.

That fucking day.

That fucking day I told her I was moving. How I’d waited because I was a coward. How if I’d told her sooner, maybe we could have talked about it, and I could have gotten her the right address.

How different all this would be if I’d just gotten that first fucking letter.

I put the paper back in the box and pick up the next.

And the next.

And the next.

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