I found that little red notebook that I was using at the beginning of last year to write you letters. some letters made me laugh, some made me sad, but only because I know I really meant them. but then I stopped writing them. I think some time in march because I ran out of things to say. or maybe my feelings had changed a little. I am not sure what it is now. this photograph reminds me of when we were little. it’s been a while since I’ve touched snow with the tips of my fingers. it’s been a while since everything. I finished writing my bilantaine just a few minutes ago. you’re in there, only between the lines, but you’re there. it doesn’t really matter anymore. except that I am afraid that if I don’t write things down they will be forgotten. no one will ever be able to bring them up on the surface. each new year makes me feel the same. I am always thinking I am missing out on something. well here’s what it is; I am missing out on you and I hate it.
I am using the electric heater to warm myself up. you would laugh because you’re used to cold and rain. I am not. I was never drawn to that part of the world before you moved there. but now I have even thought of applying for university there. there’s a lot of things I would do for you, for us. the only thing that’s preventing me from doing all of that is that I never know what you’re thinking. you seem to be fine without me and you have no idea how confused that makes me.
signed oscar wilde.