How long has it been since then? A year? 2 years? or maybe 3? She didn't know anymore. She stopped counting so long ago. Everyday felt like a year without him so she didn't need to count. A day was a year, a month was century and a year was eternity. She wonders why she even bothers to think about how long it's been since that day. It's useless, right? He's not coming back, is he? No, he isn't.
She sits up on her bed, blankets scrunching up as she slowly, shakily opened the blinds. Her eyes were met with blinding light and for a moment, just a moment, she sees a flash of his white scarf and that insufferable pink hair and the breath is knocked out of her. No, this isn't real. He's not here, he's not coming back. The light subsided, leaving her to stare out of her window, a wave of melancholy passing through her as her eyes landed on the beach. It's still strange to her, not seeing the guild. It's still strange not to have them barge into her home. It's still strange for her to come home without seeing them. It's still strange that she's lost everybody she's ever cared for.
It's still strange to feel so empty.
She blinks once and gets out of bed, only to find that stupid letter on her desk, mocking her. What is it trying to do? Remind her of what she's lost? Tell her that she could have prevented it from happening? It's there to remind her that they left her and she was at fault for not stopping them. She stares at it for a while until her eyes well up with tears. You'd think that after years and years of seeing that damned letter, she'd be used to it now, but no. Every time she catches even a glimpse of it, that spectacular wave of guilt, terror and nausea wash over her like she had never felt such things in her life. Every time, it felt so new. So raw. So powerful it could destroy her entire being. And it could. She has long since decided that the letter had the power to destroy her, kill her. Because it was his letter. It was his handwriting, as horrible and messy as it was. There were wet spots on the parchment and she doesn't know if it was her who left them, or him. She doesn't really remember anything from the first years in which he'd been away. It was rough. She read it every night, determined to find some kind of symbol, some hint to figure out where they were going but alas nothing.
She sits and continues to stare at it for a while before actually opening it. Her hands are shaking but she doesn't notice. It's always been that way. This letter had just affected her that much. With trembling hands, she opens in, only to be wracked with sobs as soon as she sees that stupid, messy handwriting. Reading made it even worse. Although it was short, it was so him. Whenever she read it, it was his voice. Oh, that voice. How she missed hearing it everyday. Spirits, she hated him. So much. She hated him for leaving her. She hated him for not even telling her in person. She hated him for being such an important person to her. She hated him for being such a huge impact on her life. She hates him for saying goodbye. If they wanted to leave, why didn't they go without telling anybody? She rereads the line so many times. I'll be back in a year or so. Or so. Or so. She hates him to the pits of hell for saying goodbye.
Because she never knows if it's a goodbye for now or goodbye forever.