December 17, 1959
Mary,
The finality of your absence is sinking in. I am submerged in a murky black ocean, and I am running out of breath. After all of this time. You're really gone. I am out of air. I gasp and my lungs fill with cold water. I have been waiting for something that will never happen.
I keep thinking that maybe one day I'll turn a corner or open a door and there you'll be, smiling at me like it's all been a mistake. Like you've just been out for a while and now you're back. But that's not how it works. You're never coming back.
I don't know how to make sense of it becuase it *doesn't* make sense. The days blur together. I get up. I go to bed. And none of it feels real, but it is. It's real and you're not. And you're dead, and I'm not. And I hate that I'm still here when you're not.
I wish I could be stronger, Mary. I wish I could be better. But it all feels pointless without you.
—Theodore
