Dear Harry

You've been gone for two weeks now. I haven't been coping well. The boys have even sent me to a therapist to help me forget. But I can't forget. You're all I ever think about. Your luscious curls, the way you smile lights up a room, your green eyes that I love so much. You're impossible to forget. I don't want to forget.

Of course the boys are worried about me. I'm even worried about me. My therapist is worried as well, and that's why she has handed me this journal, so I can write down my innermost thoughts. I have to give it to her every week to read over, but I just feel so weird giving it to her. Most of my thoughts revolve around you, so I guess that's why she wants to read it over, to make sure I'm handling everything well.

But to be honest, I'm not, and yes I'm fairly aware she will read this. But the truth has got to come out sooner or later, yeah? She never specifically told me what to write, but just that I have to write. So I'm writing to you. Starting from day one.

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48. Day seventy-seven

I ran into Anne today. I don’t know what she was doing in London, and I didn’t ask, but when she saw me she instantly fell into my arms, sobbing her poor little heart out into my chest.
“It hurts more each time I see it.” She whispered into my ear, and pulled away before I could reply. I stood dumbfounded on the street in a sea of people, staring with my mouth agape at the disappearing figure of your mother.
I just assumed she was talking about your grave.

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