Silent Hill. It's all that fills my mind now, Yang. You and Silent Hill.

The two go hand in hand. You were the one that picked out that place, after all. My memories of it are warm, but I'm not here to reminisce.

I'm so ashamed of myself. All I can think of is me. Even now, this letter I'm writing to you is for me.

I loved you, Yang. You were my goddess. When we first became partners, I hesitantly let you into my life. And when I grew bolder, when I finally said yes, I let you wreck me and put me back together.

I held onto you like there was nothing else left, like there was nothing else in the world that could get between us.

I wanted it to last forever, but I guess I was foolish.

The doctors said you weren't getting better. I watched as you wasted away in that bed. I couldn't take it. You, my bright sun, my shimmering moon, reduced to nothing.

And then we did it. I don't even know who said it first, but in my mind it's me. It's always me.

I blamed your sickness, and then everything that was building up just tumbled out. We said terrible things, and I ceased worshipping you.

We were just so angry with each other. Angry and hurt. After a while I stopped coming to see you. I was free. I worshipped others, and I drank deep.

But it wasn't the same. There was no joy. Just the remorse in my heart when I peeled myself away from each and every sticky body.

I left you in that hospital bed. After what I had done, I didn't feel worthy of you anymore.

And then after so long of not visiting you, I finally came by again. And in my weakness I did a terrible, terrible thing.

I just want to say that I'm sorry, Yang. I don't know how else I can put it. I regret what I did so much. Words I can take back. And some actions I can beg for forgiveness.

But not this. This action I can't. Moving the stars would be easier. Moving the stars would have been preferable.

It's just me, now. No you, no us, no we.

It's just me and Silent Hill, in our special place, waiting.

I read the letter again. It's in Blake's handwriting. I'd recognize it anywhere. The paper crinkles in my grasp with its uneven surface, warped from splotches of water. Tears most likely.

Blake is hurting. That's all I know. From what I'm not sure. But for the life of me, all I can do is shake in rage.

How could she do this to me?

She left me behind in that hospital room. She never visited again. We had that fight, she came by one more time, and it was over. And now, after two years, a letter is all she sends me?

It's not even for me, she said. She's doing it for herself.

My hand blazes a trail through my blonde locks. I tell myself to breathe, to slow down. To think for once in my damn life. But thinking hurts. I see only Blake again and again. I see us staring at each other during the last visit.

I don't even know what I'll do when I find her. Maybe we'll talk. Maybe we'll fuck.

Maybe I'll fucking choke her.

...

A coughing fit hits me. It's not what I had before. Whatever sickness it was is done and gone now, but I still find myself gasping and wheezing for breath. I move my hands away from my neck, rubbing the sore area around its base. It still feels tender, and I hiss when I touch it. But it should fix itself eventually.

Blake did something. I don't know what she did, but I'm still here, and I need to find out. She says she's there, waiting. For what I don't know, but I'm going.

I'm going to Silent Hill.