Why am I writing to you? You're dead. These letters are just sitting in a dusty shoebox, in the farthest corner of the topmost shelf in my unused study at home, where I'm rarely at.

Please just give me one good, Goddamned reason I'm still writing to you as if you're here.

Maybe it calms me, for some unfathomable reason. I hate this, Maes. I hate all of it.

Why can't you just be alive? Spring out of your oak box, grinning at me and showing me your endless pictures of Elicia.

I wouldn't mind if you did it again, Maes. I promise I wouldn't snap at you to stop, or threaten you with a physical snap.

I wouldn't give a shit if I could just hear your mindless babble again, one more time. Just be here.

Please just be here.

why can't you be here