I can't take goodbye.
9:49 p.m.

You know who you are.

It's funny, really, but I keep coming back here and thinking maybe one of these letters is from you. Which is disgustingly na�ve of me because I know you would have brought it up at some point in time, seeing as you can't go through these letters without reading mine.

Anyway, to get to the point. You're leaving in a little more than a week, and for the most part I know that you think I'm not worried in the least bit.

*buzzer noise.* You're wrong.

I could list every clich� pertaining to agonizing, painful loneliness, and it won't come to a hundredth of what I'm going to feel. I can't go on without you, I don't know how to live without you, I don't know what I'm going to do with myself when you're gone... to me, that's nothing. Perhaps a shrieking, keening, tearful animal wail could describe it better.

But the worst thing is that I can't do anything about it because it's out of my hands. And you can't do anything about it because you don't know, and you won't know.

There's a jagged, festering wound deep inside this tortured soul, cara mia. You and I can't do anything but to let it stay there. It could heal and I could move on; it could not heal and I could die inside. Only time will tell.

You know who I am.

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