July 8, 2017, two weeks since Mitch died

My love,

Two weeks.

It's been fourteen days since I last saw you alive.

Things aren't getting better.

I still miss you.

I still need you.

I still love you.

Kirstie's trying to send me to therapy. She says it'll be good for me. She says I need to eat. She says I need to sleep.

Tell her I don't need it. Tell her I'm fine.

If I'm in therapy, they'll expect me to get over you. But I don't want to get over you. I can't get over you.

Kirstie isn't doing so well, either. Maybe she should go to therapy instead.

Avi and Kevin aren't too bad. They definitely don't miss you as much as I do. No one misses you as much as I do.

I want to die. I want to hurt myself.

I'm sorry, sweetheart. I tried not to.

I did it to make myself pay for your death.

Now the three glistening scars on my left wrist are a reminder for how I killed you. How everything's my fault.

I wanted to do more, but I remembered you lying dead on the bathroom floor, and I had to stop before I accidentally stabbed myself.

Although that wouldn't be too bad. Maybe I should've done it.

Maybe I could've seen you again.

Yours,

Scott xx