Cassandra
It’s been six months since he left.
Six months since my heart shattered.
Two months since the last letter.
I count the time like scars on a wall.
Every morning I wake to silence.
Every night I fall asleep with nothing but his ghost in my bed.
And in between—I read this.
Over and over until the paper is soft as cloth, until the ink has bled from my tears.
I unfold it now, hands trembling like the first time I saw his handwriting after he left. The words are jagged, rushed, stained in the corner with something I pretend isn’t blood.
Butterfly,
I don’t know if this one will make it to you. They lose things out here. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes because the world is cruel. If it doesn’t, I guess I’m talking toghosts. If it does, then you’re holding a piece of me in your hands right now, and maybe that’s enough to get me through the next day.
I dream about you every time I close my eyes. Doesn’t matter where I am, doesn’t matter what’s happening outside, you’re always there. Sometimes it’s the chapel. Sometimes it’s the bridge. Sometimes it’s just you, syrup on your lips and laughter in your throat, looking at me like I’m something worth keeping alive.
You should know something. War has teeth, Butterfly. It chews and chews, and most men don’t come back whole. Maybe I won’t either. Maybe I already didn’t. But even broken—I’m still yours. I always was.
I keep the necklace around my neck like a chain. It burns sometimes. Reminds me that if I don’t crawl back, I die knowing I was loved by you, even if I never deserved it.
I don’t know when I’ll get to send another letter. Don’t wait by the door for me. Live. Breathe. Laugh. But if you ever feel like the world is empty, look up at the night sky and find me there. I’ll be the shadow that refuses to leave you alone.
I love you. More than war. More than life. More than the man I used to be.
—Dax
The paper shakes in my hands. My breath stutters.
I’ve read it a hundred times and it still rips me open like the first.
Six months gone.
Two months since those words and the only thing keeping me upright is the way his last three still echo like gunfire in my head.
I love you.
Six months.
Six months since he left.
Two months since his words last touched me and tonight, they taste like ash in my mouth.
I read his letter again until the ink blurs, until his voice turns to static in my head—I’ll come back. Always. Even if I have to crawl.
My fingers shake so hard I tear the edge of the paper. I can’t breathe without pressing it to my chest like maybe his heart’s still in there, maybe if I hold it hard enough it will beat but silence answers.
It always fucking answers.
I don’t realise I’m crying until the paper stains darker, until my throat burns raw from whispering his name over and over like prayer, like curse.
