What I Meant To Say

Dear John,

In truth, I'm not entirely sure where to begin, so I suppose I'll start with this:

It's so lonely being here, knowing that you and I will never meet again.

I now sit in this massive plane, all alone, just a pen and a piece of paper and the intention of confession to what I never said.

I, despite my best efforts, somehow failed to keep you safe. I now pay the price for that mistake.

I want to believe that what I did will pay off, but I know that it hasn't. All I can do now is pray to all higher beings I know do not exist, that she will choose what is right, over what she wants, and hope she appreciates all she can now have, that I cannot.

Mary never deserved you, but at least she deserved you more than I do.

John, you are the bravest of all the people I have ever met. I will never forget your kindness and I'll never forget your strength. You carried me through more than I could have ever survived alone. You sometimes made me almost believe that I never deserved the name Freak, because you always brought out the good in me I genuinely didn't know I had.

I care now.

I always cared that people never accepted me; I always despised the name-calling and the hatred; it always hurt. So it never seemed to make any difference whether or not I was alive. It didn't matter to me whether or not I left or stayed.

But now it does.

I don't want to leave you. Not again, not like this.

I hated having to look into your face and conceal the emotions I have had all my life, but that you taught me how to accept and embrace.

I owe you so much, and I gave you nothing but pain.

I want to say that I hope you can have a happy life, I wish I could tell you that you and Mary deserve each other and the happiness that you could have together. But for once, I am trying to tell you the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. So, here:

I cannot leave you.

I cannot live knowing that I will never see you again.

You not only bring out the best in me, but you truly make me want to live. Without that, I have no incentive to keep breathing or thinking or living.

Where they are sending me, John, I will not survive.

I told you it would not last more than six months, but you misunderstood me. I meant that I would die within that time limit.

I wanted to say that, I wanted to tell you where I was going, and how I was never coming back, but I couldn't face putting you through that pain all over again.

Knowing you were never going to see me again would be easier than knowing I was going to die.

I wish I could say that I am to be faithful to that, but I now find myself writing this letter and confessing to you all I ever wanted to say, and I'm so sorry for it, but this is a part of that confession.

So I think I should tell you that I'm not going to go.

I am currently high, well past what my body could ever handle, and soon I will overdose.

No matter what happens, I will be dead before this plane lands; I will be dead by the time you read this.

Sorry to put this so bluntly, but I fear my vision and mind are starting to fade, and I estimate that I have barely another five minutes left of consciousness to complete this letter.