December 5, 2041.

I write to you almost every day. It's a habit now, to sit down and write to you when I miss you. Everything hurts less when I write. I guess it's like a coping mechanism.

People tell me that it's probably better for my mental health if I stop visiting. They say that I'm only prolonging my pain and I should let you go now, before everything gets to be too much. 

I don't want to, though. You know why?

Because that would mean I'm giving up on you. It would mean that I would be forgetting you like you're forgetting me. I know it's not on purpose; you can't control it. But it still hurts, and I cannot do that to you.

I think about that day when we went to the doctors and they diagnosed you with early-onset Alzheimer's a lot. It made sense, when we thought about it. You had been more forgetful. I think, to be honest, we both know it was coming but didn't want to admit it. 

It was so unfair. We had our whole lives ahead of us. I hate knowing that all of our friends are having kids and enjoying their lives. A part of me wants to resent you for changing our plans. I can't, though. I wish I could. It would make things so much easier.

Sometimes, I wonder what life would be like if you hadn't gotten sick. Where would we be?

I like to think we would have traveled, like we said we would. Maybe we would have seen the world, stopping at every bookstore so we could extend our collection. I dream about what it would be like to see the Eiffel Tower at night with you. So many things we said we'd do that will never happen.

It makes me so sad on a level I can't even express. You're wasting away in front of me and all I can do is say goodbye. Not that you'd even remember. 

I'll hold onto you. I'll wait for you. I promise.