Blame

Dearest Dana,

I blame myself. For everything. Always have. Every time you've been hurt, I've blamed myself.

I suppose you'd say that's a little self-centered of me. That you'd have done things that put yourself in danger with or without me, due to the nature of the job. That you've done the things you've done for you own reasons, reasons that had nothing to do with me. But the fact remains that I have put you in danger, Dana. If you'd never met me, you'd be safer. Not safe, not completely. Ours is a dangerous profession. But you'd be safer. Safe from the things that lurk in the darkness, that have hurt you before. Safe from conspiracies, and mysterious illnesses, and alien abductions or government experiments.

And I won't be free of the blame, of the guilt I feel for putting you in danger. Because as much as I wish you'd been safe, that you'd never been hurt by anything, I can't be sorry. I can't be sorry, because that would mean being sorry that I'd ever met you. I can't be sorry for that. I can't be sorry that I've had the chance to meet you, work with you. You've brought so much meaning to my life, a connection with another person that I didn't even realize was missing.

You are the most important person in my life, and I never want to see you hurt.

I miss you.