I never told you what I'd done. For one thing, if you'd known you would never have allowed me to come to Earth with you. I sometimes regret that decision. If you'd known, would you have come back to me? Would you have tried harder to survive?
I do not blame you. You'd given too much, for too long, and if at the end you made a decision that led to death and, perhaps, a measure of peace, who can judge you? Not me, certainly.
You went up on the Citadel and you died and became a hero for uncounted billions, but you were mine first. You were mine and I was yours, since the day I thought you were a hallucination and you saved my life. And if, for a few hours, I could make you believe that there could be a happy ending – if I could do that for you, that is worth the price I'm paying. My people do not understand why I don't take another. 'You can't shut yourself away like this,' and 'Shepard would have wanted you to be happy.' But I refuse. I can't move on, as though you were just another short-lived human I loved once. And who can compare to you anyway? In your full glory, moving above and below and inside me, you were the sun, and I was a flower opening in your glorious light. And I loved you so much it hurts.
I'll never send this letter. There's no-one to send it to.
I'm sitting on the couch in the apartment you left to me, as I do every day, taking time to spend with her.
You would like her, I think. She's smart, and beautiful, and she has your sense of humor. She's ten years old today, and already smarter than me. I am raising her with stories of you. Not Shepard-The-Hero, who saved the world, but Shepard the person. The one who saved my life, and taught me to love. The one with the strange sense of humor and life-filled eyes. She will know you through me, when she is old enough that I can pass memories on to her, and she loves you.
You gave me a beautiful daughter, Shepard. Thank you.