Dear sister,

I could, with certainty, say a lot of things. For example, the sky is blue. The grass is green. Clouds are white. Those silly little sentences are known facts.

A blind man knows that the sky is high and blue. A deaf man knows the birds sing melodious tunes.

But what if those things, that we are so certain of, are not things we shouldn't be so sure about? We know that dogs and birds see differently than us- what makes us think that what they see isn't how it is? What makes us think that how we see things, is how things really are.

I had been certain, Vice, that you would never leave. And that certainty went to the extent that I never even considered losing you. I didn't lose you completely, and I know I will never, but I lost you in a way that is worse than you being completely gone. Because your presence is gone, even though I know it is gracing someone else somewhere.

But think this way. The sky turns dark at night, and it becomes so colorful when it is sunrise and sundown. It is bright in the morning. The clouds turn grey to white and white to gray, and sometimes disappear. The grass dries and becomes a dead brown, and when it burns it turn to black ash.

A blind man never saw the sky, and if he had before, he would never see it again. A deaf man had never heard birds singing, and if he had before, he could only remember it. I could only hope that you, Vice, were not the sky or the bird songs.

Because you were not just Vice. You were a girl with a chameleon soul, with a colorful personality and with a loud voice that easily turned to hushed whispers. You  were known for what you were most of the time, but those little parts of you never slipped. Or like the clouds, that were ever so present, but you only really noticed them when they disappeared.

I do not want to be a blind man, for your presence to be only a memory, or deaf, for your voice to be a distant sound in the back of my mind.

What if, one day, I remember your handwriting, but I forget what you had written? What if I forget your voice, remembering what you said? I am scared, Vice. I hope that, for you, there will always be home wherever I am. Because to me, this is no home. It is there, wherever you are.

And I always love the wrong people, sister. I love him in all the wrong ways that seem so undeniably right every time he looks at me. I loved many before, but it wasn't the love I feel now. Is there only one type of that gosh darn feeling, or does it intensify towards the people we are not supposed to love? Or the people that are too far? Because right now, when I don't know where you are, I think I love you more than I did when you were next to me.

I don't know more than the extent of what you taught me. But you couldn't teach me how to love the  wrong man in the right way, because you were the one person I knew that avoided love at all costs. I am young, yes, and this may all be but a temporary feeling. But I have felt it for so long, and so it intensifies every time I realize that I shouldn't love him.

This letter has no receiving address, but I have to talk to you. I have to tell you because if I don't, I will go crazy. And I guess I like writing more on paper than I would on any keyboard, because it is your notebook I am tearing papers out of.

I hope your obsession for freedom doesn't become an un-quenching thirst. I hope that you find what you couldn't have been given here. And most of all, I hope that your eyes do not twinkle with sadness as they did. I hope you earn a light that no one could even hold a candle to.

All my love,

Versa.