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Sometimes at night I'll hear your voice. When its really dark, you know, the kind of dark you love and I hate, I'll hear you. I guess its in my head, because no one else hears it. But I want you then, in the dark. Between the two of us I think we made the dark okay. Not a lover, but not an enemy. The dark was somewhere you could escape, it was somewhere to escape from for me.
I'm fissured without you. Tiny tiny cracks all over me, and I worry sometimes I'll crack into a zillion little pieces, all over my living room floor.
And then you'll know how big a mess that'll be to clear up.
I thought I'd write to say I'm still alive, just about. After all, I left you because my job was too dangerous, so I figured I'd just say I'm not dead yet, despite what I thought all those years ago. If I'd known then what I did now, I never would have given you up, let you go. But I was so deathly afraid.
Nowadays though, I hear you're doing okay. I've seen you in the papers, usually with a handsome date, though I've noticed they never stay long. Honestly, it comforts me and tears me up at the same time: comfort that maybe you need me the way I need you, and tearing sadness in that you don't seem happy. You're smiling in all the pictures, and hugging whoever your date is, but at night, well, your picture cries, sometimes, and pushes the date away.
I'd have to say I hope you miss me.
I'm not really going to send this, you know. But I started it with the same hope that tinges everything I have about you, that maybe, someday, when things are better…we can be better.
To hope is to dream, for us.
I love you, and I'm sorry for the biggest mistake of my life.
Draco