June 7, 2042.

Hi.

Do you remember me? It's been a while.

I stopped writing. My therapist said it's better to talk to you out loud, like a prayer. So I have been, but it doesn't feel right. I feel ridiculous; I can't talk to you like you're here, because you're not. 

You know what else doesn't feel right?

I moved out. I got a new apartment. Our house was sold to some young family, happy and full of young, joyful faces. Unaware of what the meaning is behind every wall. There, where we cooked dinner together for the first time. Over here, when we slow danced with the lights off. To the left, that was where you and I fought and didn't speak for hours.

Your presence, mostly the lack of your presence, haunts me every day. You should be here. 

I'm trying so hard to let go. But I keep grasping for you. Will I ever be okay without you here? Everyone says I will be. I should agree, right? Wouldn't that make things easier?

It would, wouldn't it. It would be so much easier if I forgot about how you bought me a white stuffed animal for my birthday. It's lost now; I think it got lost in the move. It's like us. Lost in the push and pull of life.