My Dearest Robert,
Today marked the thirty-seventh anniversary of your death. Not a day has gone by without your sea-green eyes haunting my every moment, waking and dreaming alike.
I must admit, the writing of this letter seemed pointless to me at first. I haven't written to you in all these years, thought it pointless seeing as you would scarcely have the chance to read them. You wrote to me constantly that year, though, your words sealing the chasm of the space between us. Perhaps our bond is deep enough still to bridge even the gap between Heaven and this lonely Earth. I would have laughed at such an idea before, but now it's the only shred of hope that I have left.
I plucked another shred of hope today from a chance meeting in a lift. A woman, a journalist, had your birthmark. The comet, just above her collarbone, reminded me so much of yours that I thought for one moment that she might be you. Not quite you, obviously, but perhaps your soul. For the briefest of moments, I remembered the Corsican stars, our first kiss. You were always my shooting star among stagnant ones. I told her of the coincidence, told her that you were someone whom I cared for very much. I, of course, didn't tell her that you were the only thing that had ever truly mattered to me, that you were the love of my life.
It may please you to know that you were my first and my last love. I can see you crinkling your nose at the idea now, laughing at my fool-heart, but there was simply no one else. It was always you, for eternity. You may well laugh, but I still wear your ring. Like my waistcoat, I needed something of yours to keep me company.
Sometimes I close my eyes, remember the moment when my heart skipped at the sound of gunfire. I raced up the stairs, praying to whatever God may exist that it wasn't you. When I saw you there… Nevermind. This old fool-heart cannot even bare to write it.
I write this final letter to you, because I fear that our meeting under the stars will come very soon. My work lead me to a dangerous impasse. To save hundreds, to redeem my soul for my inability to save you, I have compromised my life. I have no doubt that tonight will be my last, and so I am writing this final letter to you, again my hope that you read these words nothing more than a glimmer.
In truth, I am not afraid to die tonight. I have spent the past thirty-seven years waiting for it, in fact. The truth of the matter is, my dearest Robert, that I died the moment you did.
Yours Eternally,
Sixsmith
A/N: There is more to come, I swear. This wasn't just some sorry attempt at an angst-ridden drabble. I plan to give them more stories, more timelines, more chances at their love affair until they finally get their happy ending.