Dear Michael,
I think I love Ashton.
He stays with me every night. He tried to make me eat, even though he knows I can't. He tells me stories to make me smile. Even if that smile only lasts for a minute. He tells me he loves me. But I can't get myself to say it back yet. I want to say it back. But I know it will make you sad.
I know I shouldn't care if you're sad, because you're dead. You being sad is just a fragment of my imagination. You're sad because I'm sad. I'm sad because you're gone. You're gone because I'm stupid.
My parents sent me a package today. It had a letter from my father explaining why they don't visit. They really are scared of me Michael. My parents hate me. I understand though, I hate me too.
There were pictures of us in the box. Pictures from our first date. Pictures with our friends from school. Pictures from prom. Pictures from graduation. They were all there. And there wad one last pile of papers that made my tears sting my bloodshot eyes.
Your letters.
I read them to Ashton. He cried, and so did I. I cried into the letters. They smelled like you, Michael. So I cried. I cried because I miss you. I cried because I want to be with you.
I'm crying now, still. Ashton left for his therapy, I'm alone. You're sitting next to me, and you're crying too. But you're crying because I'm crying. You're crying because you are my brain. And my brain is sad.
Love,
Elora
