Dear Mr. Shepard,

Do you remember that toy airplane?

You know, the one from the marshal's suitcase. The one I cried over for hours and hours, the one that still sends chills up and down my spine, the one I can't forget no matter how hard I try.

That was Tom's.

And you know what? It's not Tom coming between us Jack. If it's anything, it's that airplane.

It's the knowledge that I killed a guy, I killed I guy I was pretty sure I loved. And that airplane is a…I don't know. A reminder. A ghost. A demon. I can't get rid of it, I can't forget it, and it's standing between us.

I did love him I think. Tom I mean. But I don't know. And until I know, I won't be able to do anything about you. About you and me. About us. Until I can, without a doubt, without a tear, throw that airplane into the ocean and watch it sink, I won't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing.

I don't even know why I'm writing these. I don't know what I expect them to solve. I don't know what I'm doing.

God Jack, I'm lost.

I don't have help. I don't have Tom, I don't have you, all I have is this stupid little toy airplane.

I have to go. I have to run, really fast, to someplace far away, but when I'm done running, maybe I'll write you another letter. Maybe I'll write you another letter you'll never get. Boy, I'm getting dramatic aren't I?

Sincerely,

Kate

Dear Mr. Shepard,

You know what? Let's talk about Sawyer. Because I see the looks you throw him (sometimes I hope they're jealous ones, angry ones) and I just want to get one thing straight.

Sawyer is Sawyer and you are you. And you're completely different people. I know that doesn't help. I just…needed to say it. Because, once again, I don't know what I'm doing.

I mean, I'll admit it. I've felt things for him. I have, definitely. He reminds me of this guy I used to know. It was a guy I hated, but Sawyer, some how, is an anchor. Sure, my life before this island sucked. But at least it was a life, a predictable one, not life on a dangerous, deadly island. And Sawyer is a root, a lifeline, back to the way I used to be, the people I used to know, the places I used to live. That's why I care about him.

I don't know if I love him. If love is surges of affection that you can't explain, combined with fiery anger that you can easily direct, if love is seeing someone and knowing them all to well, and yet, in some ways, not quite well enough, then maybe I do love him.

But if love is security and yet a risk, if love is elation and fear, if love is knowing that you'll be okay…most of the time, then I love you.

Either way, love seems to be a huge paradox, an oxymoron, and an all-together frightening prospect.

Like I said, I don't know what I'm doing.

I hate Sawyer. I really do. Most of the time.

And you… I don't hate you…most of the time.

He's gone. He's on that raft, he's not here. I don't know where he is, I don't know what happened to him.

Part of me is glad because he was a conflict, a conundrum, a bewildering, frightening challenge. Part of me is scared about what I might do about him. Part of me hopes he never comes back.

And part of me is terrified that he won't. Terrified that he won't show up, or that he'll be dead, or dying. That I'll never get to explain all this to him, never get to write him a letter, never get to say things to him. I don't know what I'd say, but maybe, if I got lucky, I'd open my mouth and the right thing would just pop out.

I don't know where he is Jack, and it's terrifying me. Either that he'll come back, or that he won't, and I can't decide which one scares me most.

Sincerely,

Kate