I don’t know why I find myself writing to you, I don’t think you can get it, but yet here I am. I am sitting at my old wooden desk that faces the window. I can see your curtains drawn, your lights on and your dancing shadow. While you are over there feeling happy and normal I am over here, and I’m dying.
I don’t know what to tell you neither how I feel about writing to you, so before I forget I’m going to tell you something. I miss you. I miss the old times when we could talk, when I knew what to say, when we had everything to say. Now I feel empty. I don’t know how I got here. How did I get here?
At this point in my life, I don’t know what to do. I have so many things to say and so little time left.