May 2030
Dear Asher,
At this point, I don’t even know why I bother writing to you. Habit, I guess. Annoyance too. Loneliness perhaps.
Life’s gotten better, in case you were wondering. My mom stopped progressing. Well, her symptoms have. She’s not the same as she was before, but she’s not getting worse, and I’m taking that as a win. Finally, life has given me a win.
I’m having the hardest time doing anything outside of work.
I got that transfer, so now I do more work, but it’s less emotionally taxing.
I read, I listen to music, and that’s it.
I sure as hell can’t swim—it reminds me of you.
I can’t even go to Amelia Island without thinking about you.
I can’t do much without thinking about you, and it’s fucking annoying.
I’m pathetic, I know. Maybe I just need to take your own advice and for once put myself first. I know I should cut you off, but for some bizarre reason, I can’t.
Last letter, I told you I hope you were suffering but that’s not the truth. The truth is, I really just hope you’re happy. I really hope you found someone else to love and that she makes you as happy as I couldn’t.