The Letters

My therapist told me to write letters to him. I knew he would never read them, or even get to see them. But I still wrote them. Writing the letters made me feel better, I don’t know why but they did. When I finished writing the letters I would put them in a box that sat under my bed and never look at them again.

I used to paint for him, the flowers were his favorite. I still paint them and I know that he won’t ever see the paintings, just like the letters. The paintings crowded the smallest room in my house, the room where we used to sit together in for hours. Sometimes he would watch me paint, his bright hazel eyes on my face watching my every stroke.

You’re broken, broken over someone who isn’t worth it. My therapist told me this at our first session. I bothered me how she could talk about him like that, like she knew him. Even though he broke my heart I thought he was worth it.

I miss him.

I miss Gabe.