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Hey, Minho.
It's been 2 years.
I'm finally 20.
You're much older now.
Are you doing well?
I went to the park today.
The park we always went to.
I fed some squirrels.
They seemed to communicate fine with me.
It reminds me of when you called me a squirrel.
I didn't mind because it was you.
I was fine when I was with you.
Everything was greater with you.
2 years is a lot of time.
A few people broke up.
Some died.
There's only 1 left.
Me.
Everyone's done.
I might be done, too.
Maybe if I try hard enough, you'll come back.
That's how it works in the movies.
You make a wish and it comes true.
Reality isn't like that.
I hate this reality.
My reality.
Our reality.
Everyone's reality.
I know I should stop sending you these letters.
Maybe I will stop.
If I don't send you more letters, I've moved on.
You wouldn't mind, though.
You never read them, so it doesn't matter.
For the last time, I love you.
I really do.
And I want you right now.
But I know I can't have you.
I never could.
I never will.
I love you, Lee Minho.
I always have.
I always will.
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u n u s u a l
YOU ARE READING
- without you . m i n s u n g ✔
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