Dear Sirius,
Silent goodbyes mean broken hearts.
I can't breathe as I reread all the long letters you wrote to me while you wasted away in Azkaban. When you were finally able to sleep in your own bed, did you dream of gulls and the sound of waves breaking on rocks? Did your memories of Azkaban break you? Your absence breaks me.
It hurts to be alive, here, without you. I hate you for that. I hate you for leaving without me. I hate that veil that flutters in a non-existent breeze, as though it's taunting me. I hate the nightmares that force me to watch your body fall, gracefully, into a dark abyss that I know nothing about.
Why did you bother coming back to me, after twelve miserable years alone, if you were only going to leave me once more? Did you think that it wouldn't hurt me if you'd gone?
There won't be anymore secret glances at the dinner table or hidden touches in dark corners. There won't be anymore kisses in empty rooms or quiet whispers at dawn.
I won't wake up in the morning beside you anymore. The bed is cold and empty without you. I can't sleep.
I feel selfish; breathing this air that you will never taste again, seeing things that you will never see again, and holding friends that you will never touch again. It hurts to breathe, to live, and to love without you. I can't love anyone but you. You still own my heart. Is it selfish that I wish that you were here again just so you could touch me once more? I'm selfishly thinking that I'm the only one that misses you when I know that isn't true. During the loneliest nights when I feel the absence of you the most, I forget about Harry.
Harry must blame himself for your death; I know he will because he's too much like James. I know he misses you. But he doesn't know you like I know you. He never saw you the way I got to see you. How can he say that he knows the real you? We both loved you as a friend. But he loves you like a father, a brother who could do no wrong. I love you like a soul mate. I will never love again.
But don't worry, Sirius, I'll be all right. You believe me, don't you? Of course you don't, I wouldn't either. I'm a terrible liar, you know that. I'm alright. I'm alright. I'm alright. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I'll surely be able to believe it. I can't be all right, though, not when I feel as though I'm falling apart at the seams without you here to stitch me back together.
The Order expects me to take your place as Harry's guardian. They expect me to comfort him in ways only you knew how. How can I be Harry's saviour now, if I can't even save myself? I can't do this alone.
Your death is difficult to accept. But, your death has taught me many things. One is that I never left you behind, you fell behind. I left a part of myself behind, that night at the Department of Mysteries. I am not who I used to be and I don't think I could ever go back to the person I was. Sirius is dead and so is Remus. There is no whole person; we are both half of a whole. You complete me and now I'm broken.
I have seen death—it is constantly looming within a finger's reach; it always has. We lost so many friends and family during the First War that it was predictable. I seem to have been dealt a lousy hand of cards; losing James, Lily, and now you.
Although I have seen death, I do not fear it. Did you fear death? No, probably not. I don't think you were ever afraid of anything. I am afraid, though, but not afraid of death. No, I'm afraid of living the rest of my life. How can I survive, being the last Marauder?
Another thing that your death has taught me is that being alone...truly alone...is the worst fate imaginable. Being a werewolf is hard, but waking up the morning after a most painful transformation without you, is unbearable. The transformations are getting progressively worse now that I know you aren't coming back. I feel so lost and alone. The wolf attacks my weaknesses and it tears me apart. You aren't here to heal me.
Is it impossible to prefer being alone as opposed to being surrounded by people that mean nothing to you as you mean nothing to them? Does it make me unusual that I'd rather sleep all day and escape my life for as long as possible only to fill my waking hours wishing I was dead?
The days pass by, steadily but slowly, and it seems as though nothing changed. The Second War has begun. The Order still occupies Twelve Grimmauld Place and we are all given secret missions so we rarely see one another now. They pretend as though nothing happened, though I can tell that they walk on broken eggshells around me. But it's more difficult for me when they don't acknowledge the fact that you're dead because it makes it harder to believe that you aren't coming back. You aren't coming back this time, are you?
It tears me apart knowing that I will never get a response to this letter. But I don't think I would have written it under any other circumstances—as though I'm glad there's no reply to tell me how I'm overreacting once again. It rips me apart knowing that I will never see your smile again. Your smile always made me feel safe. The friction of our bodies together and the feel of your skin beneath mine are mere memories of moments that I must force myself to forget if I want to live on.
You aren't really dead, Sirius, not really. You live inside of me, inside of Harry, and inside of us all, even if we don't see it or want it. I will see you in everyone and everything. You will haunt my dreams. I must accept it, though, difficult it may prove. But maybe believing it will help me accept the fact that being lovers with you was accepting our fate to be apart.
Forever yours,
Moony