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.


47. Day seventy-six

I pulled out your note again today. It was tucked away to the back of my bedside drawer, in my own attempt to hide it away from myself. But I just had to see your handwriting, and read the words printed on the page that I know by heart, words which I could recite in my sleep.
I feel guilty now more than ever, as the pang of guilt is beginning to seep through my soul once more. It’s never left, but re-reading your note has hurt me in ways I had never imagined were possible until now.
Eleanor is long gone; she’s out of the picture. I haven’t called her back ever since I ended things. I can’t believe it took you being gone for me to realize she wasn’t what I wanted. You could have just told me. I would have dumped her right then and there.
I should have told you, I guess, but I wasn’t aware of those feelings at the moment. All I can do is blame myself though. It’s my fault and it always will be.

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