Back in high school, when I was obsessed with trying to score the highest marks for every subject in school, my school counselor slapped me in the face when she told me that I had to have extra-curricular activities in order to make my university applications more appealing.

Back then, nothing really interested me. Sports? I'm as good as a baby when comes to coordination. Debate? I would if it wasn't that you actually have to debate for things you don't agree with, and it never sit right with me to do that. Art? I paint with the talent of a hippo. Programming? Forget it, it's in Xavier's territory. Whatever that concerns computers, I throw to his side.

I found school's extra-curricular activities very unappealing. It was then that my school counselor suggested to me to volunteer in hospitals, where I could read to little children or really anybody in need for that.

It sounded simple enough.

Needless to say, I end up doing it throughout high school, university and now. Once a week, four hours spent on attending to hospital patients. There was something calming about being able to give back to the society in a small way.

Furthermore, this is the only place I promise myself not to be excellent at. After all, I'm a dummy when comes to human interaction, and with the years of being here, I still was.

Today I was going to read to an old man with stage four lung cancer. His name was Clark, though I often forgot what his last name was. His favorite book was The Green Mile. Classic Stephen King novel, though I would say a great choice. Out of Stephen King's novels, this was one of my favorites as well.

As I read finish up to the last page, he shuffled to face me and asked, "Do you know The History of Love?"

I frowned. "Is that a book?" It's a strange name.

"Yes. It's one of my favorite books. It's by Nicole Krauss. Would you mind getting it to read it to me?"

"What is it about?"

He smiled gently, a type of serene look adorned his face. "I don't know how to explain to you. It's so much. You'll love it, Emily."

"It's very hard to impress me, Sir." Stephen King may had impressed me once or twice, but most of the time I didn't fancy his horror novels.

"Don't say too early. I'll prove you wrong on that." I laughed at him as he said that.

"I'll try to look for it and read it to you." He nodded, before he sighed.

"What's wrong?"

"I wonder when would my son come around."

I stared down on the floor. Old patients were always like this—asking after their spouse, or asking after their children. Sometimes when you read stories to them, they come around to tell you theirs. They tell you their regrets, they tell you they want to have more time to live, they tell you about their failures.

Sometimes they do say what they are proud of, and there are some patients who are so ready to leave that they smile when they do. It makes you think sometimes—perhaps death isn't always a bad thing. It's bad only when you haven't lived at all.

Perhaps that's why I forgave my mother for whatever she did—because I can sometimes see her in them, and it's hard to hate somebody who's very human for a very long time. Last year she called me to Chicago to talk. She apologized, and I told her that I long forgave her.

Despite of that, I still can't build a relationship with her. I may have forgiven her, but I don't have the heart to try having that relationship. There were just some relationships that are meant to end, meant to never begin at all. She was still trying, but I wouldn't let her.

"Did he ever come here when I'm asleep?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not on the night shifts usually."

"Would you mind checking that for me? Just in case?" His pleading face appeared. It was so different from the face he had when he talked about The History of Love. His face then had lit up. Now it was out of light, filled with a type of melancholy that comes with too many regrets, too many worries.

"I will." I doubted his son came, and I doubted that my inquires would bring any happy news. But they do say "never say never", so I'll give it a shot.

When I got out, I asked around. One of them, Alex, replied, "I've never seen anybody visit him ever since day one he's here."

"What happened between his son and him?"

"Who knows? His medical bills are not even paid by his son. It's paid by his insurance."

I looked downwards, feeling a little sad for him, but at the same time wondering why a father-son duo ended up the way they were. Clark didn't usually speak about his past, preferring to spend time commenting on the books that I read to him. I didn't know if I wanted to ask for the fear of looking nosy.

Finishing up the volunteer work for the day, I went back home.

Once I reached my door, a parcel was carried by a delivery man. A seemingly gigantic parcel.

"What's this?"

"It's your parcel."

I frowned. "I don't recall buying anything recently."

"It's sent to you. I think by someone that goes by the name of Charlotte Campbell."

My blood ran cold and something made me freeze. "What? Are you sure that's the name?"

"Yes, it is the name." He gave me an envelope. "It comes with this. It's written here the sender's name."

I read the details on the envelope. Yes, it's definitely spelled correctly...Charlotte Campbell.

"Okay." I opened the door. "Bring it in."

He placed it in the front of the door. Luca came out, her bells jingling as she sniffed the foreign object.

"Here, please sign this."

I nodded and sign it.

After the delivery man got out, I stood there, not knowing how to react to a package that dropped into my place by a dead friend. Days...days after her suicide.

What am I supposed to think of it?

I closed the door and squatted down with my back against the door. My hands shook as I grabbed upon the letter, eyes focused upon it. Before I realized, tear drops landed on the envelope, and I rubbed them away.

I quickly opened it, but hesitated once again when I had to take the letter out from the envelope. I breathed in. I can do this. But as I tried to take it out, it felt like my hand coordination became like a toddler.

I can't. I can't deal with this.

Luca meowed, and I snapped out of my shaken state. She came sniffing my envelope, before curling up at my side.

"Butthead, what are you doing?" My voice sounded choked, so I coughed, and wiped out the tears that had been flowing without my notice.

As I caress her fur, Luca tries to bite me, with her two fangs wanting to sink into my flesh. I cried out, "Stupid cat, stop trying to bite me." Then Luca tries to catch my finger for her latest meal (or at least she seems to be hungry for it) and for a while, we played a sort of strange game of It.

For some reason, it made me laugh and all the tension disappeared from me. It was enough for me to finally take out the letter. Luca then stood up, rubbing her body against me as if saying "see, I've helped."

"Yeah yeah, you helped a lot." I rubbed her head, and she eventually curled up next to me. Opening the letter with a cat beside me worked well. I breathed in, wanting to face what was hidden in the letter given to me.

Dear Emily...