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It’s incredibly selfish, isn’t it?
I think it’s your fault, though. I’ve never met anyone who’s loved me as fully, as attentively, as honestly as you did.
For that time, that summer, I felt like I was your world, Lance. As if I was all that you saw.
I remember being happy when we met. Life was a certain kind of way for me, and I couldn’t change that. I wanted to be here for Dad. I was happy. I was happy before you.
But then I met you, and that happiness I felt paled in comparison. It was insignificant compared to the way you made me feel. What you brought to me in such a short space of time was beyond anything I could have dreamed.
I said I wanted it to hurt, that if it wasn’t painful, messy, crazed love, then I didn’t want it. And I meant it. With every breath that passed with those words, I meant it, but, Lance, this is unbearable.
I’m walking around with a you-shaped hole in my heart, and I’m so broken, so lost and afraid, I find myself avoiding anything that could risk healing it.
Not every day is like this. I don’t want you to think I’m mopey. It’s just a bad week. I just felt a little lonely today and knew speaking to you, even if you don’t get to read this, would help.
I still write to Mum. She gets the other “why won’t Lance let me love him” letters.
I guess I’m tired. And overworked. And I know I need to eat something more than ginger biscuits (it’s all I can keep down).
God, I miss you. Your voice. Your face. Your mind.
It’s weird because to everyone else you’re just a somebody. To speak about our time out loud to anyone else, you’re that guy who I fell for that one summer. No one cares. No one gets it. But to me, you’re the somebody. The somebody I woke up to everyday. The somebody I’d think about whilst walking the meadow. The somebody who’d be waiting for me at the end of a day. The somebody I showed my deepest and darkest parts to. The somebody I knew would be there—no matter what. You told me yes, and no, and to do what felt right, or to smile, and then you’d hold me when I’d cry.
Is love really wanting to stand on the highest point on earth and scream at everyone below that you’re not just a somebody, you’re the somebody?
My somebody.
You really did a number on me, asshole.
Maybe I’m crazy. But I know that there will never be another one for me if there is a you.
I definitely feel less alone with my pen on paper. Maybe I should write more. It would help if I knew whether you are reading my letters.
I have a scan next week, so I’ll know more then, but so far everything is perfect. I’m still terrified but I’m doing my best to be the best for our baby. I promise. Maybe it will get easier to talk about soon.
I love you.
Your sunshine xx
I lie in the bed staring at the ceiling for hours after reading her letter. I should read more. I want to. But the coward in me has me contemplating how much it might hurt to read any more of her words. Even when she’s not telling me something important, it feels like the most sacred thing I’ve ever heard.
Being in prison changed me. Day by day. Night after night. It fucked me up better than anything else ever has. To think I had her right there, so close, even if it was just ink on a page.
I wonder if she could’ve saved me.
If maybe letting her in instead of shutting her out would’ve been enough. If maybe I would’ve closed my eyes and seen her before the nightmares came.
“Lance.”
I look up at the sound of her voice, surprised her interruption doesn’t startle me as she pulls me from my thoughts.
It’s got to be well past midnight.
I thought everyone was asleep.
“Is that…” She looks pointedly at my side, the paper scattered there.
“Your letters.”
