July 2, 1961
Mary,
It's happening, and I don't know how to stop it. I can still hear your voice sometimes, but it's quieter now. I see your face when I close my eyes, but the edges are blurred. The little details—the way you used to laugh, the exact shade of your eyes when the light hit them just right—they're slipping away. I never thought that would happen. Not to you.
You're fading, Mary. It feels like you're dying all over again, and I can't hold on. I try. I try so hard to remember everything, every moment we had, but the memories are soft now, like they're dissolving before I even notice. I thought I'd always have them. I thought I'd always have _you_.
I don't want to forget. I don't want you to fade. But it's like trying to keep water in my hands, slipping through no matter how tightly I hold on.
I can't even hear the music the same way anymore. The songs we used to love feel distant, like echoes that get softer with each passing day. I play them, hoping they'll bring you back, but even they're quieter now.
I'm scared, Mary. I'm scared of the day when I wake up and realize that you're gone—not just from this world, but from me. From my mind, my heart. I don't know what I'll do then.
I just want to keep you here with me. But you're slipping away. And I can't stop it.
—Theodore
