Dear Cato,
I don't know what I'm trying to achieve by writing you this letter. Two months have passed. The summer is almost over and here I am wasting time, sitting cross-legged on my bed, writing this down on a sheet of paper. I don't even know where you are. The last time I've ever seen you was when they were escorting you to the justice hall and you turned back to give me that sad, apologetic look you knew how to put on so well. I'm sure you're sorry for leaving, even more sorry that you never even bothered to give a heads up. You never gave me the chance to say goodbye. But that doesn't matter anymore. For all I know, you could be dead.
This letter will be followed by a few more I'll be writing for you and only you. It's my way of saying the goodbye I was denied of. Besides, if I did, I'd probably not know what I would do. Would I cling on to your arm, beg you tearfully not to leave? Would I kiss you for the last time? Would I go with you? The night you left I spent it thinking about the things I would've done just so that I could be with you. Right now, though, those thoughts and fantasies of the two of us spending the rest of our lives together, happy, have been replaced by ideas on how I'm going to move on and pretend that we were never meant to be. Pretend. It's all that I could do now because the truth of the matter is I know that we were and forever will be made for each other.
I loved you, Cato, and this is me saying that I'm moving on because I have to.
Clove