Dear Eric,
There is no such thing as true love. In your absence, I have come to realize that love can't exist if you're not in my life. So rather, I think that you can only be happy with the one you're with. Some might call this settling; I call it practicality. I could go on a diatribe about how looking into your eyes made my entire world stand still but what good did that ever do?
What I'm doing here is wasting my life away. I'm kidding myself, believing that I'm telling you details about my life. I make you into this absentee figure, some soldier who I'm writing to but you're dead. You're gone and there's nothing I can write that will ever reverse that fact. No amount of complaining or outpourings of devotion can change it.
Some part of me wanted to believe if I had been in your life, maybe somehow you might still be around. I reason that if we had been together then we could have lived happily. Is that why I write? To keep you in my life? To stop blaming myself for your death? Maybe telling you what happened might offer the catharsis I desperately need.
On the night that you died, I was sitting in the movies with Trevor. It was our tenth date, I remember because he made note of the fact when he first rang my doorbell. I found this very endearing. We were sitting in American Gangster when the phone calls began. The first I ignored. The second I let go to voicemail. The third I reasoned that it could wait. The fourth I got up to answer. And that was when my mother told me that you had crashed your car, into a tree, drunk. I remember telling her how it couldn't have been true because you were such a good driver, and the conditions on the road were just fine, and this must be some sort of joke because there was no way that you could be gone. Trevor had to come out of the theater to see me sobbing on the floor of the lobby, a few concerned patrons hovering nearby but far too frightened by my hysterics to actually ask what could have been wrong. He picked me up because I had lost all function of my limbs, I was a pile of bones as he carried me to the car.
Next thing I remember, I'm lying in bed. It was dark and tissues littered the comforter. Sitting up abruptly, I glanced at my phone, 6 AM. I was going to be late for work. Grabbing for the phone, I dial the number to the office, Cheryl picks up. That's weird, I reason, Cheryl usually substitutes for me. Why would she be in so early? That's excellent foresight on the part of the company and terrible professionalism on my part.
There is no such thing as true love. In your absence, I have come to realize that love can't exist if you're not in my life. So rather, I think that you can only be happy with the one you're with. Some might call this settling; I call it practicality. I could go on a diatribe about how looking into your eyes made my entire world stand still but what good did that ever do?
What I'm doing here is wasting my life away. I'm kidding myself, believing that I'm telling you details about my life. I make you into this absentee figure, some soldier who I'm writing to but you're dead. You're gone and there's nothing I can write that will ever reverse that fact. No amount of complaining or outpourings of devotion can change it.
Some part of me wanted to believe if I had been in your life, maybe somehow you might still be around. I reason that if we had been together then we could have lived happily. Is that why I write? To keep you in my life? To stop blaming myself for your death? Maybe telling you what happened might offer the catharsis I desperately need.
On the night that you died, I was sitting in the movies with Trevor. It was our tenth date, I remember because he made note of the fact when he first rang my doorbell. I found this very endearing. We were sitting in American Gangster when the phone calls began. The first I ignored. The second I let go to voicemail. The third I reasoned that it could wait. The fourth I got up to answer. And that was when my mother told me that you had crashed your car, into a tree, drunk. I remember telling her how it couldn't have been true because you were such a good driver, and the conditions on the road were just fine, and this must be some sort of joke because there was no way that you could be gone. Trevor had to come out of the theater to see me sobbing on the floor of the lobby, a few concerned patrons hovering nearby but far too frightened by my hysterics to actually ask what could have been wrong. He picked me up because I had lost all function of my limbs, I was a pile of bones as he carried me to the car.
Next thing I remember, I'm lying in bed. It was dark and tissues littered the comforter. Sitting up abruptly, I glanced at my phone, 6 AM. I was going to be late for work. Grabbing for the phone, I dial the number to the office, Cheryl picks up. That's weird, I reason, Cheryl usually substitutes for me. Why would she be in so early? That's excellent foresight on the part of the company and terrible professionalism on my part.
