She would write letters. The letters simple. The letters telling about her day. The letters telling him things that she was sure he would have found interesting. In her head: she would picture his smile or perhaps his firm look of annoyance as she did something reckless. He could almost hear his voice scolding her. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand patting her head as he praised her affectionately. She could almost smell his scent and hear him reply. She could feel all of these things as she wrote these letters and poured her heart out to him. He would never see the letters. No one would. Perhaps if he returned one day: she would give him the letters and he would read them and decide to stay with her. She would cry, she was sure of it. She wanted him to know how much he mattered even when gone. She wanted him to know he had someone who cared, even after all he'd done. So she wrote, she wrote those letters because she felt it was all she could. She was also sure that if the letters were an actual conversation between she and him: he would care. He had always cared in his own roundabout way. She could only smile to herself as she thought that.

Salty tears warping the ink of her letter.