This goes to Kiefer Sutherland and Mary Lynn Rajskub, for having been – among others like Reiko Aylesworth and Carlos Bernard – two of the deepest, most important, sweetest, purest sources of inspiration I could only dream of before I found them.

And this goes to my friend Rocío too. As simple as it is: for everything.

Her life instead of his she would beg God to take did she believe in Him every time she's battling against tears because she doesn't want to let them fall and by that act alone admit defeat, and by that act alone admit she is sick worried because once more he is out there, out in the cruel, dark, cold world fighting cruelness, darkness and coldness all on his own, without the sweet, pure protection of his guardian angel, the guardian angel that has let him down, the guardian angel that has betrayed him, the guardian angel that has gone to all extremes to try and accomplish the mission of saving him, the mission of catching him every time he falls so he doesn't break, so he doesn't shatter, so he can keep on living, the guardian angel that has lied to him, the guardian angel that has failed him, the guardian angel she stopped being when she turned her back on him, the guardian angel he lost his trust in, the guardian angel that went to the extreme of hurting him, lying to him, betraying him, setting him up, letting him down because she thought she was protecting him from something worst, from getting killed.

The guardian angel he has forgiven, the guardian angel he has thanked, the guardian angel he has said to that he knows everything she ever did, everything she ever did she did it to protect him. Everything she ever did, when she did it, she was doing her job: protecting him.

Then why does she feel like dying, if her job, her mission has been accomplished? Why does she feel like a failure? Why does she hate herself? Why does she feel this heavy weight on her shoulders, on her heart, on her soul? Why does she feel like a shadow? Why does she hurt so much all she wants is to be finally empty, to finally do something to empty herself and stop this?

These are the twisted, tangled, tortuous, poisonous, excruciating, consuming, heartbreaking, and unhealthy, threatening thoughts that are going on in Chloe O'Brian's mind tonight.

She has decided to write a letter she knows will never be sent. A letter she has first written in her mind, analyzing every single word that came across her track of thoughts, before she gained the courage it takes to write it down on paper. Before she gained the courage it takes to sit down with a pen in one hand, a sheet of paper in front of her, and simply let it out, let it all out.

And oh, poor Chloe, oh, are her thoughts twisted, tangled, are her thoughts tortuous, are her thoughts poisoning her, are her thoughts driving her crazy, are her thoughts consuming her, are her thoughts stabbing her in the heart, are her thoughts making her soul throb, are her thoughts threatening her sanity, are her thoughts making it all worse than it already was, worse than it already is.

Oh, has she been confused. Oh, is she confused right now, as she sits down and starts writing.

Oh, has she felt lost. Oh, does she feel lost right now.

Oh, has she felt pain. Oh, does she feel pain right now, a pain that she cannot bear, a pain that she does not know how to deal with. A consuming pain that is getting the best of her, that is what devours her as she starts to write the first of many letters that will be never sent, the first of a thousand letters she thinks the eyes of her beloved will never see, letters filled with words she is certain her beloved's heart will never be embedded in. And oh, is it painful to write this first letter, this first letter of many.

But, somehow she knows, it will also be therapeutic, this torturous writing process. It will help easing the suffering, or at least that she hopes for: she hopes for her suffering to be eased soon, before she dies of a broken heart, before this she feels, this she has been feeling for years now consumes her totally, leaving her empty, completely empty.

She wants to be empty, yes; she knows everything will be better if she were empty. But she doesn't want to be emptied like this.

If she is to end up emptied, then she wants to empty herself and not sit arms crossed waiting for suffering and bitter depression to get the job done. She wants to write until emptiness is all she can feel inside, cracking her bones and breaking her veins and poisoning her blood and… She doesn't know. She doesn't know where this will take her. She doesn't know what she is doing, she just knows she needs to write, and write, and write, and write, and write and empty herself and try to breathe again, for breathing has become so difficult ever since the afternoon he parted…

She's never been good with words, she's never been good at expressing her feelings. She will do what she can. She doesn't really mind, she just wants to write and empty herself and ease her pain and end the suffering. She just wants to feel some peace, whatsoever.

The pen starts dancing over the paper sheet, and once the first two words are there, staring at her coldly, she realizes writing will be a relief, but it will also be some sort of punishment.

She doesn't care. She deserves it, for having loved him in secret for years, for having never told him how she felt, for having never understood what to do with that, for having never done something to make him see she could be more to him than just a guardian angel, for having ever had the thought of being more than a guardian angel to him cross her mind. This writing process will be a healing process, and it will also be some sort of process in which she is going to punish herself for all the things she has and hasn't done. This will bring back ghosts and haunted echoes, and tainted memories, and it will also bring peace. Maybe.

She sobs, she writes. She cries, she writes. The tears leave stains on the sheet of paper, but she doesn't care, she doesn't even notice those stains, she just writes, she writes with a passion she didn't know she had in her, she writs like she's never done it before, and she cries, and she sobs uncontrollably, and she bites her fist because she doesn't want to wake her son up, she doesn't want her son to hear her crying.

She keeps writing, and writing, until that first letter she first wrote down in her mind is there, materialized.

She sees his name, there, on paper. She whispers it, and when she does, it's as if a knife was being twisted in her heart, touching all those unhealed, unclosed wounds she has been living with.

Dear Jack,

…