Dear Michael,
The last time I tried to send a letter my father gave me a look. He knew I was sending it to you. He looked at me like my mother had. With sadness and fear. Why are they treating the idea of you so poorly. It's been close to two years now.
This morning we went to get breakfast. I enjoyed seeing you smile. I was filled with those stupid metaphorical butterflies when you laughed. You do such things to me I can't describe. You make me love you, just because you're always yourself.
When I got home today after breakfast, you followed. You held my hands and we had a conversation with my parents. They never replied to your words. They only kept staring at our interlocked hands. They kept getting a fearful tint in their eyes when I repeated what you said, because they must not have heard you. I wish they would treat you like they did before, treat me like they did before as well. Maybe they're mad that we got into the car accident. I have no clue why their behaviour is so abnormal.
Right now I am sitting on my bed. You're gone. I'm alone and I wish I wasn't. When I'm alone I can't think of anything but you. You have never answered why you leave so much. It's alright though, Mike. I'll be okay another night without your warm skin against my own. It's what I've been forced to get used to. I don't want to get used to not being with you. Are you used to being without me?
Love,
Elora
