Dear Sherlock,
This week was very boring. Sarah took me out to a Chinese/Pan-Asian restaurant (chopsticks, no knives), but I didn't really enjoy it. The food was excellent, but I'm still quite fragile and I have to admit that to myself. So it was boring. We barely spoke, because I have very little to talk about.
I've been writing my book, as I said I would. It's going rather well so far, and I've written quite a lot due to the extreme abundance of time that I have available. I expect I'll have the first draft finished by May. It's not enjoyable to write - It'd be strange to say that writing about horrific murders was enjoyable - But it's good for my brain. I don't know why you never tried this. Life would have been so much less dull for you. It's a great time-filler and it makes you think. Your book is as clever as you are, so I'd love to see what you'd have come up with. You could've written a non-fiction book, if novels don't suit you. You had a brilliant grasp of the English language. You should have at least tried. It could've brought a lot into the world.
I don't see my therapist anymore. I refuse to. Everyone seems to think that it'll help me cope with living with my attempted suicide and getting over you, but I know better. Only you can help me. It was only ever you who could help me. When I needed someone there, you came along. Why can't you do that now? Why can't some miracle happen that would bring you back? "Because miracles don't happen." you'd say. But I disagree, because you also said that heroes don't exist. Well they don't now but when one did exist, I knew about it. And to me, you were a miracle. Don't you try to tell me that I'm wrong, because you can't prove an opinion wrong.
Love,
Your John.