hi okay this is irrelevant and ooc but wow doesn’t ash look happy about the book
TW: Frequent mentions of death and just overall sadness? Oh look, I added a hint of abuse just now so there's that too.
I love you. I hope you knew that, I hope you know. I don’t know what to write in this, and I think it’s all a bit silly, since they told me it would help. It won’t. What would help? Having you back, having you next to me, just you. This won’t bring you back, Bran. I know that, and so does everyone else. God, I miss you. I think I’m going crazy without you. It’s only been four days since you left, and I swear, I’m seeing you everywhere. Four days, and I can’t help but constantly forget that I can’t just go over to your place and see you. I forget that you aren’t there for me to cuddle with anymore. You aren’t there, with your open arms and your warm smile and your fluffy brown hair and your twinkling eyes and everything else. And it hurts. Why did you leave? Was it you? Was it my father? Was it really all an accident? All I want are answers, but I’m not getting any, not from you, not from him, and I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. All I want to do is sleep in your arms again, but I can’t. The next best thing, I guess, is your bed. I think I’ve drowned it and myself with my tears, I’m sorry. I know you don’t like seeing people cry. I know you hate it when I cry. Then again, you never will see me again, will you? After today, I’ll never see you again either. If I go, that is. I don’t know if I’ll be able to, I don’t know if I can go outside and wear funeral clothing and look at all the miserable faces around me because you aren’t there. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at your cold, lifeless shell of a body. I don’t think you’d want that to be how I remember you either.
I guess I should write about nicer things, because if I don’t, all the ink will smudge even more and nobody will ever be able to know what I wrote to you, but that might not be a bad thing. Do you remember when we first met? Nine years ago, when we were both seven. I broke my arm that day, because you were climbing one of the trees, and I wanted to follow you, because you said you were Tarzan and told me I was your Jane. I think that might be why my dad didn’t like you. I remember you cried that day, with me, at the hospital, because your mum was going to yell at you. I never told you that I was sorry. I’m sorry. I saw the bruises on your arm the next day, even though you tried to hide it. Nine years, and I’m only apologizing now, even though you’ll never hear me now. I’m sorry, things got sad again. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I guess we’ve always been a little bit bittersweet, like when we were nine, and your dad told us he’d go out to get some more ice cream for our sleepover, but never came back, just like how after that night, your bruises never showed up again.
It looks like this letter is more of me just recounting memories. It’s okay though, isn’t it? Because really, this isn’t truly for you, it’s for me. You’ll never read it. You’ll never see it. You’ll never know it exists. It reminds me of that time you pretended you didn’t exist. It was terrifying, honestly. I remember I woke up that day, and all our pictures together were gone, all of your pictures were gone, and when I went to your house, your room was an office! Your mum pretended she didn’t know who I was, so I started to cry. And when she told me it was all a big setup, I stormed down to your basement, where you were hiding, and ripped up one of your precious Batman posters right in front of you. We were twelve then, it feels like a lifetime ago. This should’ve been written a lifetime later. I wish I could be recounting all this with you, instead of just writing it to you, all in a pointless letter that feels like it’ll fall apart any second. I can’t do this anymore, Bran, I can’t handle any of this, not now, maybe not ever. I don’t know if it’ll ever get better, if I’ll ever stop feeling like I’m being stabbed in the chest, I don’t know if the twisting feeling in my stomach will ever go away.
I think I’m going to end this now. I’m sorry, because I’m selfish. I’m selfish enough to wish that I died for you, that our roles were swapped, so I didn’t have to feel this way. I love you a lot, Bran. I’m so sorry. I hope you’re happy, wherever you are, I hope that you’re okay. I hope that you’re smiling brightly like you did before, and that you aren’t hurting like me. This is it, I think, our first goodbye. We agreed that we wouldn’t say goodbye, because we’d see each other again, but this time is different, isn’t it? There aren’t any more “See you laters,” or “Goodnights,” or “Tomorrows.” I guess it’s been goodbye for a while now, and I’m only accepting it now.
Goodbye, I’ll love you as long as the sun shines and forever more.