John, I am not dead. I am not. I want to write you but I can't. Your safety is more important than any whim of mine. What have you done to me? What have you done? I was a machine, a human with no heart, a highly functioning sociopath. And now I am here, hidden away and thinking of you. On how you moved on, with your shoes and your dates. Do you think of me when you open the door and there is no one there? Do you think of me, when the violin doesn't play, all dusty and out of tune? Have you realised your life is much better without me because I was a machine? Because I drove you mad and didn't know how to pay Cluedo. Do you miss me ruining any chances of a good date? It doesn't matter anymore. I have failed, John. I have hurt you. Maybe I am not a fake, but I certainly have failed you. I, too, was alone, John. I too thought I was immune to needing company. But now I am here, writing this words I will never send, and thinking about you. About your silly jumpers and sassy words. About the way we ran from the police after chasing that taxi and laughed. Those were the best times. The real ones I had. Sorry John. I am so sorry. I thought I would never be able to love. But I was wrong. For the first time I was wrong. God, I wish I knew it before.