"I cried today. I told you I was worried, I told you about the nightmares, but I didn't tell you about that. I laid myself down on the couch and cried, hugging myself. It was stupid, and childish, and unjustified. But I did it. And I didn't tell you about it. Just like I didn't tell about so many other things, all things I regretted not telling you about while I cried, all things I still won't tell you now.
You said you'd be away for some hours, you said you had somewhere to go. And then you didn't reply. Not yesterday, not the day before. For a whole day, I kept checking, I kept looking, hoping, and I saw nothing. And I was afraid. I was scared, I was terrified. And I cried. And when today I saw your answer, it felt like the sky had opened up after a storm and I could see the Sun again. It felt like I could be happy again.
It was childish of me. I should have known better. I should have thought better. Now everything's alright again. You had fun there, and now we're talking again. But I'm still scared. Scared that, one day, I won't get a reply anymore. Scared that I'll have to go days without knowing anything, hoping for a sign, as the realisation slowly sets in that there won't be another reply. Scared of not knowing, of going to sleep every night with the faintest glimmer of hope that the next day will be different, only for the morning to crush it with its silence. I don't want to wake up in a world without you.
It's one of the things I realised today. I have always known it, deep down, but today I felt it. And it was horrible. It was torture. Amongst the things I've never told is the way you make me feel, like you fill a hole in me I didn't even know existed before you were there. And today, it felt like that part of me was ripped away, and I was left there, mauled. I felt hollow. I felt useless. I felt pointless. You gave light to my days, and I don't want to go back to what it was like before that. I can't go back. I don't see a reason to go on like that.
A lot of things went through my mind while I lay there, clutching myself. That I'd trade my life for yours. That this world needs you more than it needs me. That there are others out there who need you, things you need to finish, a life you need to live. Selfishly, that I've suffered enough already, too much to lose you too. I thought about all the things I want to tell you, all the moments I want to share with you. I thought about all the things i want you to tell me. I thought about all your plans for the future.
I thought about the last things we wrote to each other. I didn't want my last words to you to be those. What would I want my last words to you to be? 'I love you', if I could know they would be the last. 'Goodnight' or 'goodbye' otherwise, I could be happy with that. And I don't want your last words to me to be those, as selfish as it sounds. Plans about the future, saying you'll be back... I don't want to have to go through that, I don't want to be there, not knowing what will happen. And if there's ever a last word between us I would want it to be because I'm gone, not you. The world needs you more than me anyway.
I know I shouldn't think about this. You've said it yourself. Maybe you're right. Almost certainly, you're right. But I can't help it. It was a little better, after I cried, a little easier to hope, to think nothing was really wrong and you'd come back. And you did, so everything was alright in the end. But I didn't want it to be easier. I didn't want to think you were alright, I didn't want to hope. Because if you hadn't been, I would have just suffered more. Because it felt like I was deluding myself. Because if tomorrow brings another day like that, and if you don't come back this time, I don't want to spend weeks suffering in useless hope.
And yet I hoped. I couldn't help it, in the end. I couldn't take it. In the end, I held on to the thought that nothing was wrong, just a minor inconvenience, and that you'd be back. What will become of me if one day you don't come back? I fear for your life, and I fear for mine. You gave me a reason to go on, when the only thing that kept me going was my own inertia, and now that I know what it's like to live again I don't want to go back. I've seen what it's like, and it's not worth it. Not without you.
When I saw you were back, today, I was happy. Happier than you can imagine. I didn't say anything, I just joked about it a bit, but I felt like life was worth living again. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I shouldn't value you so much, even if just typing that makes me feel disgusted in myself. You underestimate yourself, I feel. You're better than anyone else I've ever met. You're better than me. And it all comes so easy to you, like you're not even trying. While I was there, crying, I thought about how much I'd miss you if you were gone. I thought about how much I missed you already, even just after a couple of days.
Not being able to talk to you, even when there have been times when we haven't spoken, it was just terrifying for me. There have been times when I didn't write anything, but knowing that I could made it different. Knowing that if I did I wouldn't get an answer, thinking that I might never get one, it was pain. It doesn't matter if we're talking or not, knowing you're there is enough to keep me going, to keep me happy, knowing you exist is enough to make my life feel complete. And thinking about you not being there, it's agony. The world feels hollow without you. Don't leave me. I need you."
Sunset stares at the sheet of paper, pen still in her shaking hand, ink still drying and a little smudged in places. Then, she stares at the book resting on her desk, the journal she shares with the one the words she just wrote are meant for. She's still there, living her life. She doesn't need to know of the pointless self-induced suffering of someone who's only a friend to her, who was worrying over nothing and who can't even properly write down her feelings on paper. Rereading it, the words already feel hollow, nothing like the pit of desperation she was in just hours before. Biting the inside of her lip, she places the pen down, crumples the letter and throws it away, then opens the journal and picks the pen back up, tapping it on her chin as she thinks of what else she might write.
With a sigh, she closes the book, having written nothing, and walks away.
