The letter is scrawled hastily, as if something is more pressing, something that is happening soon. The typical handwriting of Stitches is ruined by this, and it is written with such haste, that he does not remember to address it properly. Nameless, it continues to whom he writes it for, without greeting.
“I’m sorry for all of this. I find that when I think of you my heart can keep going, can keep pushing me on. When I decide to try and empty my head of you, and think of other things, I feel slow. I feel like I’m on the edge of the world, watching the sun go down, and I feel like as soon as that sun goes down the world ends. I’m no goddamn poet…fuck.”
The lines skip, a few scratches of ink at the beginning to tell a tale of indecisiveness on what is to be said next.
“I’m getting off topic…kind of. When I came to Bree I was scared. I was confused. I was alone and afraid. I learned a lot in those first few months; I learned about friends, family, and love. I learned that even if you find yourself alone and scared, people want to see the best in whatever you are, people…most people don’t want you to be alone. You helped teach me that, in a way. I understand it now, what I thought was my purpose. What I thought I could do to protect those that I love, my family and friends was just…I don’t know. Nobody needs my protection it seems, and nobody should want it. You were the most of all of it, the center. Everything I did was something I did when I thought of you. It was all so simple then. When I was just some dumb puppy, following people around hopefully. It’s all screwed up now, and I’ve managed to drag the people I care about down into it too. It never should’ve been anyone’s problem but mine.”
There is another space, a long pause in the note, before it resumes.
“I never should have dragged you into this. It wasn’t and never will be yours to deal with. I have to face this, my past. It’s…
I can’t do this to you. It’s not on you to protect me, just as I failed to protect you. That’s all I’ve ever done. I’ve failed. I'm more of a ghost than a person.”
The page breaks again, little parchment left to hold words, a small passage remains at the bottom.
“I bought a ring.
A long time ago. On days when I feel the most alone, when I feel like it’s hopeless, I think about it. It all seems so long ago and far away now…but someday. Maybe if I get through all this. More than anything I want to…”
