February 18, 2042.

It's been almost a month since my last letter. I've seen multiple therapists in that time. Everyone says the same thing: It will get better with time.

You know what that is?

Complete bullshit.

Every time I breathe, it hurts. Every time I see your clothes in my closet, I want to scream until I lose my voice. Every time I see our pictures, I want to tear everything we own with my bare hands.

I don't think you understand how much it hurts, knowing you left without me. Isn't that what we promised? That we would go together? I thought that was understood. I thought we agreed.

I never realized you would leave before me. Childish, isn't it? I just assumed you would be around forever. I guess it was stupid of me to hope that we would last longer.

People keep asking me if I'm okay. I don't know what that means. Do you? I keep going to call you, forgetting that you can't answer. I miss being able to call you and tell you about the smallest part of my day. I miss your hugs, the way you wrapped yourself around me and placed your chin on my head.

Am I okay? I guess it depends on one thing.

Are you happy?