The first letter.

     Dear Dres,

     At the risk of sounding overdramatic, I'm going to refrain from verbalizing just how shattered and shell-shocked I currently am. Actually, that's not me being overdramatic. That's just accuracy. Because I am shattered. I am shell shocked.

     I feel like the wind keeps getting knocked out of me by some phantom punch. It's enough to make me want to keel over and brace myself on my knees for a second, to catch my breath, to return to my body like the punch knocked my soul right out of me. And my soul's just standing there, looking at me, confused by how he got there.

     I'm confused how I got here, too.

     I thought that things were — I thought that we were good. I thought I made you happy. I thought you wanted a future with me. I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe I'm delusional. The end hadn't felt near, hadn't been in sight. I'm combing through the months we spent together and I can't find anything. Anything that suggests this is how you were feeling.

     But then, maybe that makes sense. You were a lot better at keeping secrets than I actually fully comprehended. Which hurts. Knowing you were capable of hiding this much from me. That there were so many secrets between us. It makes me want to hate you. But mostly it makes me hate me.

     Because there were things that I just didn't want to know. That I didn't try to know. I never really felt like I had a right to ask about Weston. But I also never really wanted to ask about Weston, either.

    I didn't want to know what he meant to you and I didn't want to know that you hadn't moved on, that you were still hurting and grieving. And that's selfish. That's not what you do for someone you — that's not what you do. I know that. So I'm not blaming you, not completely. And I'm not going to hate you, either.

     Because if I make you the villain in this, then what was this last year?

     If you're the bad guy, then our story isn't the one I thought it was anymore. It's all poor Cas, poor Cas got his little heart broken, poor Cas got left. And you're the asshole who did the leaving. And I'm the dumb ass who thought we could last forever. So no. I refuse to let that be our story.

     Because it's a good story, too good to be reduced to a bad breakup. You're too good.

     I believe that. That you're good. I'm not just saying this, Dres. I have no reason to. You're gone and I'm. I'm halfway to California, actually. There's no reason for me to be saying anything but the truth at this point.

     Here's the thing. You can walk away — run away, really. But you're not taking my memories with you. They're all I've got now and they're — they're real. I know they were. At least for me, they were. But I think they were real for you, too. That's what I keep telling myself because how could you fake that for a whole year? That's just exhausting. And. I know you felt the way I did.

     I don't even know what I'm saying anymore, or trying to say. Just know that you gave me the best year of my life. That's what I'm trying to say. And it doesn't hurt to admit that.

      I regret a lot. I'll go on to regret even more as time passes and I overthink and overanalyze just about every moment I spent with you. But I don't regret meeting you. I don't regret giving you all of me.

     Because you're the best thing to happen to me. And you don't get to say you're not. This is my truth. And I wish it were true for you, too.

     But I wish a lot of things.

     I wish you would've tried harder — to stay, to move on. Maybe that was asking too much of you.

     I wish I could've helped you move on the way you helped me. And maybe you'd say that's asking too much of me.

     So I'm not going to lament about it further. But I am going to keep writing you letters, Dres. Whether you choose to respond to them or not. (I hope that you do) But I'll understand if you don't. If you can't. I'm not going to ask that of you but I am going to make a request. I think you owe me this much.

     So do this one thing for me. Do not fucking die.

     You don't get to be the hero, or the martyr, or the grieving fool. So you have to go back to a war field? Fine. You need to work through some things? Go right ahead. But if I find out that you died in the line of fire, threw your body on a grenade or something absolutely balls to the wall, I'm going to hate you for the rest of my life. So if you feel — felt anything for me at all, if you meant any of it, then you'll do this one thing for me.

     Figure your shit out but live to say, "I figured my shit out."

     That's my one request.

     And then there's this. And this is the part you may disagree with the most. The thing I really need you to know. The take-away from this whole letter. This is what I promise, even if we never meet again. Even if it means I spend the rest of my days alone, waiting for something I'll never have again.

     I'm not giving up on you.

     I'm not giving up on us.

     I don't care how long or how far apart we are.

      I'll wait for you.

      Always,

      Cas

The last letter.

     Dear Dres,

     I hope this letter finds you well. Or finds you at all.

     That's like dumb formal, but whatever. I suppose this is a formal letter and, at this point, I have no reason to believe that any of my letters have found you. There's been nothing but radio silence from you for four years. I remember saying that you didn't have to respond but I always held out hope that you would.

     But four years later, I've heard nothing from you. Which leads me to believe you never received any of my letters. I like to think if you were receiving my letters and had no intention of ever reconciling with me again you would've sent one response, if just to say this is ridiculous, you need to move on. But you never did and so I never did and now it's four years later, I've been on approximately one real date, have had a few greatly dissatisfying flings, and not a single friend to show for myself.

     I don't blame any of that on you, per se, but these are direct consequences of living in my past and refusing to accept any sort of future where you aren't in it. I think I was scared that if I allowed myself to enjoy other people, the space I'd left for you would start to get smaller. I didn't try to make friends because I didn't want anything to change. I didn't want me to change. I was holding out hope on a version of my life that was never going to come to fruition.

     That's on me, not you. My teammates tried very hard to include me, but you turn down enough invitations to hang out people eventually just stop asking. On the bright side, the lack of social life gave me ample opportunity to immerse myself in my school work. I think it was easier, focusing all of my energy on my studies. I got good at hiding behind my work. I got good at putting up walls between me and real life. Better to hide than fully capacitate the pitying looks my mom gave me every time I asked her if any mail had come for me.

     For what it's worth, she never once told me to stop writing you. I don't know that this was actually helpful or not. I think I would've hated her, though, if she had told me to stop, to move on, or grow up, or stop being dramatic. Which are all things I thought but never said. I know that I held on for too long. It would've been different if she said it, though. Would've felt like she was minimizing my feelings. And she didn't.

     So I guess in a weird way I should be thanking you. Because I wouldn't have gotten this far, been accepted in a dual PA program without you, graduating from a six-year program in five years with high honors. So thanks Dres, for breaking my heart. I couldn't have barreled through summer courses for the last four years without you. Who says trauma can't be motivating?

     I hope I don't sound bitter. Because I'm totally not. Why would I be bitter about spending four years of my life waiting for someone who so clearly gave fuck all about me? That's ridiculous. Wildly childish. So unlike me.

     I guess I'm a little bitter.

     When I sat down to write this, I told myself I'd be concise. Write a brief letter, something like: thanks for the trauma, hope the war was everything you were hoping for, I still miss you like a fucking dumb ass but I never want to see your fucking face again. :)

     I'm pissed, obviously.

     Feels like this anger should've presented itself years ago. Like I'm going through the stages of grief in reverse?

     I'm feeling like I want to do something reckless. Maybe I will. Maybe everything I do from here on out will be to spite you. Maybe I won't finish school after all. Why should I do anything nice with my life so then people can turn around and say, I know you were hurt about Dres but look how great your life turned out.

     My life is not great and I'm not happy. And I refuse to let anyone attribute the shitty thing you did to me to some greater good. I didn't need to be left to be successful. To be a good student. To become a doctor.

     So maybe I'll just be a bad student now. Toss the doctor dreams away. I've got four years of socializing to catch up on. I just — I thought I was going to write a nice cordial letter wishing you well, but fuck that. I'm so mad at you. I think I hate you. And I hate that I hate you.

     Whatever. Whatever. Forget it. Have a nice life, Dres. I hope it all was worth it and I hope you get everything you ever wanted. (I mean that despite the fact I'm pissed)

     — Calvin S.