Elsa,
I saw you. I saw you across the fields. At first, I thought it was my imagination again. I thought you were some kind of mirage. The heat is atrocious at this time of year, sweltering and humid, and I truly believed I was having a stroke.
I took three steps forward when you vanished. You were an apparition after all. I know you said you would visit, but you must know that I don't hold you to that. Even if you visited, I didn't expect you to visit me. I don't hold you to anything. I just—it's been hard, not writing to you. I hadn't realized how much I relied on the constancy of your words—and that is unfair to you. I don't mean for my words to make you feel guilty, I merely…want to tell you how I feel, because I can't tell anyone else.
I miss the letters. There. I admit it. I never should have told you to write to my mother. She always tends to ruin everything. Or, I guess I tend to ruin everything and then blame anyone who is near enough to blame, before I admit to it being solely my fault in the first place.
I don't think I'll ever send this to you. There is no reason for me to send it. It's out of my selfish need to write to you. Perhaps I will make this a journal instead. I'll bind the pages together, shove it in an unused drawer of my desk. I just…need an outlet, because my skin crawls, and I feel like I'm losing my mind half the time, and if I don't write something down, I think I'll implode.
I hope you're well. Not knowing is…strange.
H