Letters to Wyatt✔️

13

December 25, 2015; 12:16 a.m.

Dear Wyatt,

It's Christmas Day now. Whoop-Dee-freaking-Do. I have a hard time caring about things like Christmas anymore. It's just not the same.

It's currently the middle of the night, only a few minutes after midnight. I decided to cut the Christmas Eve festivities short and went to sleep even earlier than little Mia and Henry, and I regret this now.

I should have waited up and watched Mia set out her stocking for Santa with so much excitement she was practically bouncing. I should have taken the chance to hold Henry while my sister takes pictures. My niece and nephew seem to be the only thing that cheers me up anymore, and I'm quickly discovering lately that I need all the cheering-up I can get.

It doesn't feel like Christmas. It's just another day where I wake up in the middle of night only to stare at the numbers change on my clock until it lulls me back to sleep. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

If it were really Christmas, you would have padded your way down the hall, carefully avoiding the creaking spots on our hardwood floor until you came to my room. Then you would have woken me up with a kiss, and together we would have made our way hand in hand down the stairs to the kitchen.

It was our thing: The Christmas Cookie Operation. Every year, without fail, we were put in charge of eating the cookies left out for Santa, sneaking around while everyone was fast asleep and feeling like spies on a mission.

It was a thrilling adventure. Every year you would have to remind me to stop giggling from excitement so I didn't wake anyone up. Of course, sometimes you silenced me by kissing me, which always tempted me want to be louder so you would have to do it again.

After we had eaten the Christmas tree shaped sugar cookies, we would sneak over to peek at everyone's stockings and see what they were getting. We had this ongoing bet of how many socks my parents would give me each year. Some years I won, and other years you did.

But you're not here this year. There isn't going to be any secret spy mission. Instead I'm going to have to go eat the cookies by myself. I think I'll leave the stockings untouched this year. I have a hard time caring anymore about things like how many socks are in my stocking.

Savannah

A/N: *hates myself because I killed Wyatt*

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